


Elementary 20: The Baker Street Years IX (1901-1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [20]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Anal Sex, Bigamy, Cock Rings, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Frottage, Gay Sex, Jealousy, Kidnapping, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Pie, Riding, Suicide, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Case 101. FIRST BORN (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Priory School')</b><br/><b>Case 102. ASYLUM (formerly 'The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax')</b><br/><b>Case 103. LUCIFER RISING (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire')</b><br/>Case 104. BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN (The Terror Of Old Abrahams)<br/><b>Case 105. AS TIME GOES BY (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Red Circle')</b><br/>Case 106 NO REST FOR THE WICKED (The St. Pancras Case)<br/><b>Case 107. TORN AND FRAYED (formerly 'The Adventure Of Shoscombe Old Place')</b><br/><b>Case 108. SIMON SAID (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Three Garridebs')</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

In some strange way, I came to value Cas even more as the years passed, something I felt particularly as we entered a new century and I moved to the decade that came after being forty-something. Of course I had often reflected on how lucky I was to have him in our earlier years together, but having weathered so many trials and tribulations, it felt even more of an achievement to still be together, wondering how on earth I had got so lucky. He bore with my uncertainties and mother-hen tendencies – I tended to have a panic attack if he so much as sniffed – with stoicism, and often times he would catch me staring at him, and just shoot me a look at me over his glasses, as we sat in front of a warm fire in Baker Street, two alphas just happy to sit there together. Of course, the sex that usually followed that look was great as well!

It says something for my complete lack of planning skills that I had assumed that we would continue like this, the great detective and his bumbling medical scribe, ad infinitum. I had thought myself happy with my lot in life - until the last case here, where Cas totally took my breath away.

Yes, he had other ways of taking my breath away too, but for once, I did not mean That. Anyone would think I am a complete... uh.....!

Let's get on with the stories!


	2. Case 101: First Born (1901)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Priory School'.

I

Looking back, I find that if I include the undocumented cases of which there were several hundred, Cas and I undertook cases in each of England's historic counties at one time or another, despite the 'tidying up' of the boundaries in the late eighties. However, some of them we only visited once, and this was the only case we ever undertook in England's smallest county, Rutlandshire. As with several others, it began with suspicions of a supernatural element, but it ended..... well, rather shockingly.

+~+~+

It was January, nineteen hundred and one. A cold bitter chill hung over the land, and I wished heartily the skies would snow and get it out of their system. Instead the clouds hung leaden and heavy over the land, seeming to drain the colours from the landscape beneath them. 

I was not pleased when the summons to the Priory School finally caught up with us in the rural retreat of Melton Mowbray, whence we had gone for a small and uninteresting case, and stayed on for a few days. The last six months of the old century had been more than usual demanding of my friend, and I was looking forward to him having a respite from work. But the telegram came from the same religious order who had taught Cas in London, and he felt obliged to go, though I insisted on our not starting out until the following day, especially as the telegram had reached us after eight in the evening. Though there may have been a train across the border, justice could wait for twelve more hours. Cas needed his sleep.

We had dined at the house of an acquaintance that evening, from which we had just returned, although 'dined' was perhaps an exaggeration. The current vogue for infinitesimally tiny portions seemed a cheap way out of providing enough food, as far as I was concerned. My stomach voiced its agreement as we re-entered our hotel room, much to Cas' amusement.

“I had a feeling you might not be too impressed with the menu”, he said, “so I ordered some food in from the hotel restaurant. It should be heated up and here in a few minutes.”

“Good!” I said fervently. “I need it.”

We both undressed, and soon there was a knock at the door. Cas donned his dressing-gown – he had absent-mindedly opened the door stark naked to one of the maids the previous morning, the lucky thing! - and went to get the food. I perked up at once at the familiar smell.

“Apple pie!” I beamed, bouncing across the room like an over-eager puppy. He chuckled at me,

“I thought you might approve”, he said with a smile. “Tell me, Dean; if it ever came to a choice between pie and sex, which one would you choose?”

My face must have resembled a train crash, as I stared at him in abject horror. His face fell, and he sighed unhappily.

“I see”, he said morosely. “Then I had better leave you two together....mmph!”

I stopped his words by the simple expedient of sealing my lips to his, and holding him as close as I could. He tensed briefly before melting into me.

“You can send that back to the kitchens right now”, I said firmly, even though a part of me winced at the idea. “You always come first for me, Cas.”

He smiled, and walked across to the bell. For one horrible moment I thought he was going to do just as I had said, but then he smiled at me again.

“Just testing”, he said. “I would never deny the man I love the food he loves. Even if that food is second to me.”

“My Cas”, I said, walking over and plastering my body all over him. “Share my pie, please?”

He beamed at me.

+~+~+

Hitherto, I had always thought of the English village as something permanent. The cluster of little cottages unaffected even if there was a railway line passing nearby, the small elegant church, the tavern, the shops, the families who had lived there for generations, the squire's house...... it seemed as if it had been that way for centuries, and always would be. Which may have been why the scene before me came as such a shock when I realized what it was.

We had been summonsed to the famous Priory School in the county of Rutlandshire, an institution which, despite its remoteness, rivalled places like Eton and Harrow in its fame and accomplishments. Unfortunately it now surpassed those institutions in a rather more unwelcome accomplishment, namely two dead students. I did not immediately see the connection between that and a field with strange markings, but Brother Lionel, the beta monk who had come to meet us off the train, explained matters.

“You are probably going to be told about our famous Curse at some time or other”, he said, “so I thought that I would fill you in with the facts first. This, gentlemen, is all that remains of Martinsthorpe village.”

I remembered that the station we had recently alighted from had been Martinsthorpe Halt for the Priory School, but I had assumed that the village in question was a normal one. Apparently not.

“Sheep?” Cas said, as if everything was patently clear to him. It probably was, and I wanted to swat him. Our host nodded.

“In 1533 the then prior, a man called Robert, decided wool was the future, and threw all the villagers out of their homes”, he explained. “The village was razed to the ground, and replaced with a single sheep-farm; you can see the modern one in the distance over there. Legend has it that the villagers cursed the prior and said he would go to the devil, but he just laughed at them. Yet just six years later, Henry the Eighth dissolved the place and gave it to one of his followers. It passed through various owners until our order acquired it as a school twenty years ago. That was the same year the railway opened, and we have prospered ever since. Until now.”

I looked out at the marked field, and shuddered. Getting on for four centuries since that terrible day, yet there were still signs of the lives and loves that had been so brutally interrupted here. What, in this world, was truly permanent?

“What happened to the prior?” I asked.

“Retired on a fat pension from the king!” Brother Lionel laughed. “You see why I'm a bit chary about that part of the Curse. But with the deaths of young Smith and Warwick, well, people are talking. I just thought that you should be prepared.”

“All facts have the potential to be important”, Cas said, a bit sententiously I thought. 

The brother nodded, and we got back into our cab, leaving the abandoned village behind us. I was not sorry to see the back of it.

II

The head of the school was Father Adam, surprisingly a beta, and he greeted us warmly.

“It was fortunate that your telegram caught us in the area”, Cas said. “Brother Lionel explained what had happened, but I would like to run through things with your good self, to make sure I have all the facts.”

“Of course”, our host said. He sat back and folded his arms over his ample figure (I tried not to think 'Friar Tuck', but failed dismally). “Naturally most of the boys returned to their families for the Christmas break, but by last week they were all back with us. At the end of last summer term, the Governors who run the school had decided that we should take on three lay teachers for the expansion. The Order operates the school, but half of the Governors are lay people, and we felt obliged to respect their wishes, especially as some of them have their sons here. And we had just fought off a bizarre suggestion that we should actually start having girls here!”

He made it sound like they had narrowly avoided a fate worse than death. I suppressed a smile.

“The three new teachers were Mr. Ludwig, for German, Mr. Hadrian for art and Mr. Barnstone for Divinity and Scripture”, he went on. “With the first two, I was more than satisfied. But Mr. Barnstone seemed far too relaxed for our institution. He even insisted on the boys addressing him by his first name, Edward.”

“I suppose every teacher has their own approach”, Cas said dryly. “I take it that there were no complaints from the boys?”

“No”, our host admitted, sounding almost reluctant. “And of course I sampled some of his work throughout last term, to make sure, and it seemed fairly satisfactory.”

“Only fairly?” Cas asked, quirking an eyebrow. I wondered a little acidly if the headmaster had really been disappointed that such a modern approach had not yielded poorer results. 

“One cannot make judgements based on a few months”, Father Adam said loftily. “And with what has happened since, I feel that I was right to be concerned. Two of his boys were found dead yesterday morning. I of course called the police, but I dispatched a telegram to your Baker Street home at once.”

(There were times when I silently cursed the modern world and the almost instant messaging available to people nowadays.)

“Please tell us exactly what happened”, Cas said.

“I should explain that we are not, strictly speaking, a conventional school”, our host said. “It is our practice that whilst the boys spend about half their time in the classroom as one might expect, they are also set a number of assignments and allowed to finish – or not, as the case may be – in their own time. These all count towards their final mark, and are aimed at encouraging a degree of self-motivation.”

“It all sounds quite sensible”, Cas agreed.

“For Divinity and Scripture, the boys have a choice once they reach fourteen”, our host explained. “Of course they have to take the basic course – we are a Christian country, after all – but they may also take an advanced course as one of their three optional subjects. This is why Mr. Barnstone only had four students in his class the morning of the day before the deaths, all sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds. James Smith, Æthelred Langar, Paul Warwick and Mark Barrington-Brooks. All alphas except Warwick, who is – was – a beta. The subject of discussion was the power of superstition, and one of the boys – no-one is quite sure whom – suggested that they try summoning a demon. Quite stupid, and Mr. Barnstone was foolish to go along with it, but he said that he had a book on the subject, so why not? After dark that evening, they all went to an area behind the stables and painted some symbols on the ground. Naturally nothing happened – but the following morning, both Smith and Warwick were found dead in their beds!”

“You called a doctor, of course”, Cas said. Father Adam nodded.

“We have a man on site, Doctor Gipping, and the police brought their own man in from Uppingham”, he said. “Both were of the opinion that cause of death was poisoning.”

“What sort of poison?” I asked.

“That they do not know”, our host said, “though the police doctor suspects cyanide. He cannot be certain until further tests are carried out. But it cannot be anything the boys ate. Their diets are strictly monitored, and dinner is served from communal bowls. They cannot have been poisoned, yet they apparently were.”

“Teenage boys will often find ways to eat things that adults around them know not”, Cas said. “Especially if it is considered unhealthy. I would like to interview the two other boys and Mr. Barnstone, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course”, Father Adam said. “I have already ordered a room to be set aside for you. I will take you there.”

+~+~+

Our first interviewee was Master Æthelred Langar. He was tall for his age, but gangly in the way teenage boys often are, yet to fully grow into his limbs. His blond hair looked in urgent need of a trim, reminding me of Sammy's eldest, who was not much younger and had inherited his father's flowing locks. My brother called it 'leonine', but to me it looked just plain untidy.

“You're Mr. Castiel Novak?” he said disbelievingly, looking at my friend.

I scowled, but I could see his point. It had been windy on the way from the little halt, and Cas' always impossible hair had (somehow) managed to achieve a new level of disorganization. That and his crumpled trench-coat made him look less the great detective, and more someone who was in dire need of the local church's charity.

“I am”, Cas smiled. “I am investigating the deaths of your two young friends.”

“Paul was my friend”, the boy corrected stiffly. “Jamie was just a bully, always thinking he was better than anyone else.”

So much for not speaking ill of the dead, I thought wryly.

“The doctors think that both boys were poisoned”, Cas said carefully. “That would mean, obviously, that they ate something during the day which you did not. Have you any idea what that might have been?”

There. A definite pause before he shook his head.

“Master Langar”, Cas said warningly, “I would remind you that the wilful withholding of information pertinent to any crime is itself an offence. And this may be murder, so the police would not look kindly on you if you happen to 'remember' something later on in the investigation. What do you know?”

The boy reddened, but nodded.

“Barrington-Brooks came up to us before Barney - Mr. Barnstone - arrived, and showed us a stash of chocolate bars he claimed to have found”, he said. “I asked him why he hadn't had any, but he said he was allergic or some such rot.”

“You think he was lying?” Cas asked.

“He's one of those who will do anything to fit in”, the boy said scornfully. “He gave us each two, but Barney was just coming out, so we hid them. I suppose they ate theirs later.”

“You did not?” I asked. The boy blushed.

“It was Spotted Dick for pudding that night”, he said. “It's my favourite. And I had rather a lot; the cook thinks I'm underfed.”

“What did you do with your bars?” Cas asked. 

“Hid them underneath my clothes in my room”, the boy said. Then he went pale. “Oh hell! You think.... they were the poison.”

“I think we will accompany you to your room now, and send them to the doctor for analysis”, Cas said firmly. “Let us go!”

He opened the door, and the boy led us through a maze of corridors before finally stopping at a thick wooden door. He opened it and entered a large dormitory room, with two study desks at each end and four beds in between. A brown-haired young alpha was reading at one of them, but our guide ignored him and went over to open the drawer by his bed. He searched around in it, then looked helplessly at us, before looking in the other draws.”

“Gone?” Cas said.

“Gone!” the boy said flatly. “But at least I saved you some time. This is Barrington-Brooks.”

III

The brown-haired boy accompanied us back to the interview room, looking decidedly nervous. Whereas our first interviewee had been tall and gangly, this one was short and compact, constantly pushing his glasses back up his nose. His clothes were much more ill-fitting that his predecessor, and I guessed his family were not so well off. Cas seated him opposite us both, and himself sat down.

“You are aware that we are investigating the deaths of two of your fellow pupils”, he said gently.

The boy nodded, looking as if one sharp word would cause him to bolt.

“It is important that we know as much as possible about the victims”, Cas said. “I would value your opinions, Master Barrington-Brooks.”

“James had a reputation for being a bully”, he said quietly, “but he had to be. He had two younger brothers in the school – John, who's thirteen, and Joe, who's nine. They got picked on when they started, and he came down on the people doing it hard. Not on anyone else. Paul was a bit of a joker. I thought he was the one behind the chocolate, but he denied it.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asked. 

“I found six bars of chocolate in my clothes drawers when I went to get my kit for cross-country”, he said. “Paul knew I was allergic, so I just thought it was his way of teasing me.”

“And you handed the chocolate to your fellow Divinity students”, Cas said. The boy nodded, then his eyes widened.

“Oh hell!”

“As you have surmised, there is every likelihood that your chocolate was the medium of poison”, Cas said gently. “Tell me, apart from Master Langar, were either of the other boys in your dormitory?”

The boy shook his head. 

“No, I only shared with one other boy – Wilson – before Red arrived. The room can take four; he's back with his parents just now, after some relative of his died last week. Red transferred in from a school in Nottinghamshire that closed, apparently. He did well to get in.”

Cas sat back and put his hands behind his head, surveying the boy curiously.

“It's not just the chocolate, is it?” he said eventually. “There is something else in this case that you have not yet told us.”

The boy blushed.

“I can't say”, he muttered.

“You can”, Cas said. “Two of the four boys at that ritual have died. I would not want there to be a third.”

The boy looked up fearfully.

“You think I'm in danger?” he ventured.

“If the killer knows, or even thinks that you know something, they will strike”, he said firmly. “I am sure you have studied Macbeth. You will know that once someone has killed one time, it becomes ever easier to remove people who look as if they might be 'in the way'.”

The boy gulped.

“I wasn't supposed to be there”, he said. “I decided to go to Father Adam about the chocolate this morning, thinking it might be important in some way – the school secretary was gossiping to someone that poison was involved - but he wasn't in his office. On my way back, I heard someone talking in a side-room. I shouldn't have listened, but I recognized the voice.”

“Who was it?” Cas asked.

“Red”, the boy said. “And he can only have been talking to one person. I only heard one sentence before I ran, but he definitely said, 'Father, I know what you did'!”

+~+~+

I don't believe it!” I said stoutly. “Father Adam, in his own school? If anyone has a motive not to have two murders here, it is him!”

Cas was saved from a reply by the arrival of Mr. Edward Barnstone. The Divinity and Scripture professor sat opposite us, looking nervous. He was a wispy blond beta in his early forties, looking totally bemused at the sudden demise of two of his pupils.

“First”, Cas said, “I would like your opinion of the characters of the four boys at the ritual. Please be frank.”

“Smith was all right; a lot of swagger to him but no real harm”, the man said. “Langar was the one who brought up the idea of the summoning, which is typical of the lad; he always was a troublemaker. Warwick was a fusspot over insignificant matters and I had the feeling he would never be able to organize himself properly. And Barrington-Brooks should not be left in charge of anything more complex than a lead pencil!”

Cas looked at him curiously for a while.

“I see”, he said slowly. “I understand that you moved here at the start of the term, sir. From where, may I ask?”

“Harby, over the border in Leicestershire”, he said with an smile. 

“That is in the Vale of Belvoir, is it not?” Cas asked. The smile faded.

“Yes”, the man said, clearly wondering where Cas was going with this line of questioning. As was I, for that matter.

“I am going to ask a question which you may find impertinent”, Cas said, “but it is highly relevant to my investigation. You are related to the Dukes of Rutland?”

The man's mouth promptly fell open. I knew that feeling.

“How did you know?” he muttered. 

“What is your real name?” Cas asked.

The man sighed. 

“Edward Granby”, he admitted. “I am a very distant cousin to the current duke, and with no chance of ever inheriting as my grandfather was illegitimate, but with the death of my father last year I have become independently wealthy. The current duke is godfather to my daughter, Elizabeth, and we are good friends.”

“Then why teach?” I asked, bewildered.

“It was all I ever wanted to do”, he admitted. “Father hated it, and did everything he could short of disinheriting me to stop me, but I persisted. I worked at a small local school in Lincolnshire until last year, but they only needed me to cover for a teacher who was pregnant. Then I managed to get a year at Stowe to cover a teacher who went to the United States for some reason, after which I applied here.”

Cas nodded.

“I have one more question”, he said. “Do any of the boys visit you in your private rooms?”

“No, sir!” he said, looking shocked. “That would be highly improper. Tutoring sessions take place only in designated rooms.”

Cas leaned forward. 

“I have an idea about how we might solve this case”, he said. “But I am going to need some help....”

IV

“Is this really necessary?” Father Adam asked, looking vexed. “I have already had to talk three fathers out of withdrawing their sons from the school.”

“I would not ask unless it was”, Cas said firmly. “I only need to borrow Mr. Barnstone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What if the killer strikes whilst you are gone?” the headmaster demanded.

“It is my belief that they will not”, Cas said. “However, as there are no night services from the halt and I do not wish to endure a rough road journey to Oakham in the dark, we will depart first thing tomorrow morning.” 

He turned to the school secretary, a grizzled elderly lady by the name of Miss Floriston.

“I would like copies of the files you have on all four boys, please”, he said. “Not now, but for when I return. Will that be possible?”

I seethed. She had iron-grey hair, was sixty of she was a day. and she still simpered at him!

“Of course, Mr. Novak”, she said sweetly. “I will set to work right away.”

I coughed pointedly. He looked at me, clearly unabashed. Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

+~+~+

Cas and I had been placed in one of the dormitories, the boys there having been forced to move out for the night. I was hoping for a good night's sleep, but just as I was about to suggest we turn in, there came a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Cas called.

To my surprise, Mark Barrington-Brooks poked his head around the door. 

“He took them”, he said. 

“Thank you”, Cas said, standing up. “The doctor and I are going out. Lock the door behind us and do not allow anyone in but us. Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed.

“Yes”, he said in a small voice.

“Chin up!” Cas said. “You are helping us catch a murderer!”

+~+~+

I hurried after him, but Cas was apparently too busy to answer my obvious questions. Somehow he navigated the labyrinth of corridors easily, though I had no clue as to where we were heading. Eventually he stopped outside a small door and entered what appeared to be an unused bedroom.

“Where are we?” I whispered. 

“The teachers' quarters”, he whispered back. He gestured to a door in the side-wall. “Through there is Mr. Barnstone's room.”

“Then we must be quiet”, I said, “or he will hear us.”

Cas chuckled.

“I doubt it”, he said. “Someone has drugged his evening milk drink and is expecting him to be asleep, but he is feigning as advised.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We shall see when he receives the visitor I am expecting”, Cas said. “Probably not for a few hours yet, though. We had best make ourselves comfortable.”

+~+~+

He was proven right. It was a little after two o'clock in the morning before I heard the sound of quiet footsteps in the corridor outside. I took out my notebook.

'What are we going to do?' I wrote, and showed it to him.

He took it and wrote a single word, 'wait'. 

Nothing happened for what seemed like an age, until I saw the handle of the connecting side-door slowly turning. The door opened silently – someone must have surely greased the hinges – and a figure stepped into our room, smiling broadly. Then he saw Cas and I standing there, and the smile vanished as if it never had been. 

V

It was Master Æthelred Langar.

+~+~+

Cas moved swiftly, and the boy was handcuffed before he could even resist, though he seemed too stunned at being caught. 

“Stay with him”, Cas said in his normal voice, before hurrying through the still open door. I could now smell what was indisputably smoke coming through, and I feared momentarily for my friend before I heard the sound of windows and doors being opened, followed quickly by Cas leading Mr. Barnstone through the door. 

“Doctor”, he said, “I need you to go and fetch Father Adam and inform him of what has happened here.”

“What has happened?” I asked, still confused. Cas gestured to the stunned Master Langar.

“This boy just tried to kill his own father.”

+~+~+

“How on earth did you know?” Father Adam demanded. 

It was the following day. Fortunately the murderous schoolboy had relied on smoke rather than fire to dispose of the father he thought had drank the drugged cocoa (which I had had tested), so the damage to the room was minimal. The almost certain mental damage to a man whose son had killed twice and then attempted patricide was another matter entirely.

“It struck me on hearing of this crime that there was, fittingly, a certain schoolboy element about it”, Cas said. “Curses are all very well, but local constabularies tend to look for facts. Thus I was looking for someone with possibly an immature outlook on life. Though it has to be said, that includes many adults!”

I smiled.

“I was also fortunate in that I had a small case for the Duke of Rutland some years back”, Cas said, “and had a chance to see the fine portraits in his London home. The moment I saw Mr. Barnstone, I suspected a link, and of course that led me to the idea that Master Langar might be his son.”

“Of course!” I said. “Mark Barrington-Brooks overheard Master Langar calling someone 'Father'. He was not speaking to Father Adam at all!”

Cas nodded.

“Had he been addressing Father Adam here, he would have more likely said 'Father Adam' than just 'Father'”, he said. “That, plus the fact that the villages of Langar and Barnstone are both close to Belvoir Castle. As is Harby, where Mr. Barnstone hails from. And Mr. Barnstone also mentioned that his son had 'always been like that', yet apparently he had known him for barely a term here.”

“The chocolate bars?” Father Adam asked.

“Master Langar knew that would dispose of two of the boys at the ritual”, Cas said. “He knew Barrington-Brooks was allergic, so he would not eat any, and since they shared a room, it was easy to infer that his room-mate had stolen the uneaten chocolate bars to hide the evidence. It is, I am afraid, the old trick of hiding a leaf in a forest, or in this case, a murder in a set of murders.”

“But how did you know he would try to kill his father tonight?” Father Adam asked.

“Remember that I told your secretary about my plans to take Mr. Barnstone to London the next day”, Cas smiled. “Contrary to the original meaning of their name, secretaries are often terrible at keeping secrets. I also had Barrington-Brooks to help me in case; he was going to mention it if the news had not reached Master Langar by nightfall, but it did.”

“His own father”, Father Adam shuddered. “But why? What possible reason could he have had?”

“Money”, Cas said flatly. “A great deal of it. Mr. Barnstone – or Mr. Granby, as I should call him – is quite wealthy, and Master Æthelred is his first-born son. The boy decided that he was not prepared to wait for his father to die, but wanted that money now. Which brings me to my fee.”

“Oh”, Father Adam said, suddenly looking very discomfited. “Yes. Indeed. Uh, we are not....”

“My fee”, Cas said, “is that you allow Mr. Barnstone to continue here if he so wishes. He may not, after the ordeal he has gone through, but no man should be subjected to both that and losing his job for a relatively small untruth. I am convinced that he could not have known just what horror he was unleashing here.”

“Of course”, Father Adam said. “We would be glad to keep him on.”

+~+~+

As things turned out, Mr. Barnstone/Mr. Granby did stay on at the school, and eventually rose to become the deputy headmaster. His son, being too young to face the death penalty, spent the rest of his life behind bars, which for the willful murder of two young boys and an attempted patricide was the very least he deserved.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, the lady vanishes – except all is not what it seems (when is it ever?).


	3. Case 102: Asylum (1901)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax'.

I

Ever since their disagreement over my relationship with Cas, he and his brother Balthazar had seen very little of each other, remaining in contact for professional reasons but nothing more. I have to say that this did not greatly upset me, and any celebrations that may or may not have occurred at that time were purely coincidental. 

Yes they were!

I had not expected much from Cas' family as our relationship became clear to them, and I had been grateful for the understanding shown by Sir Charles, though I heard from his daughter Mrs. Thompson that Lady Rebecca had been a driving force behind that, going so far as to clout any son who openly opposed our union. Michael and Raphael's hostility, along with Gabriel's studied indifference, I could ignore, but bearing in mind everything Cas had done for Balthazar, I expected better from the lounge-lizard. His recent absence was more than a good thing, in my opinion.

Possibly the only downside to having less of the unwelcome layabout around was that it also meant we had fewer dealings with Miss Charlotta 'Charlie' Bradbury, who was now supplying the government with a steady flow of information undercover. So it was a welcome surprise when the lady herself arrived at Baker Street one day.

It was the middle of February, and the depressing weather was matched by the streets, still bedecked for the recent funeral of Her Majesty. Like many Britons, I privately dreaded the prospect of Edward the Seventh (he had never liked his Christian name of Albert, though he had shown at least some tact in claiming that he wanted his late father to be honoured alone for it). After the great Victoria, we found ourselves with a libertine on the Imperial throne, and at a time of increasing dangers across Europe. It did not bode well.

I had just been reading the maiden Commons speech by a young new Member of Parliament called Winston Churchill, for whom the newspaper writers predicted great things (as always), when Miss Bradbury was announced. She timed her arrival well; Cas was just finishing his essential first cup of coffee, and was now coherent.

“I know I'm not usually the person to call you in on things like this”, she began, “but in the course of my business, I've run up against something rather odd, and I would be grateful if you could focus those investigative powers of yours onto it.”

“What is it?” Cas asked, yawning. He had been suffering from a mild flu for much of the last week, and neither of us had slept much as a result. I yawned in sympathy, and Miss Bradbury looked knowingly at me. I tried not to blush.

“Have you read anything in the papers about Lady Frances Carfax?” she asked.

“I have not”, I said. “The name sounds familiar, though.”

“Her brother Ferdinando was in the papers last year”, she said. “He was thrown out of the Carbonara Club for hitting a servant who, he claimed, had not bowed low enough to him.”

“Charming!” I muttered. 

“There are three Carfaxes”, Miss Bradbury informed us. “Ferdinando and his sister Frederica, both single, thankfully for humanity. And Lady Frances, born Francesca, who married one Mr. Christophorius Peartree, but insisted he change his surname to hers. Typical, really.”

“And now she has disappeared?” I asked. “Are you sure we want to find her?”

Cas shot a look at me. I shrugged, and Miss Bradbury grinned.

“I have an inkling as to what may have happened”, she admitted, “but in my line of business I cannot risk making accusations. The Carfaxes may be an unpleasant bunch of slime-balls, but they are also a highly influential unpleasant bunch of slime-balls!”

“Mr. Peartree”, I said, recalling the name. “Is he related to Lord Peartree, the government minister at the War Office?”

“That is his brother Wolstenholme”, Miss Bradbury said. “The sad thing is that those two got off lightly compared to the rest of their siblings. Their mother virtually guaranteed that they would be tortured at school when she named them all.”

(I made a note to check up on the rest of the Peartree family names).

“Where do Mr. and Lady Carfax reside?” Cas asked.

“Where else?” she said wryly. “Carfax Place, in Trueman Square, Paddington. She left there Friday afternoon, and has not been seen since. And there is one other thing you should know before starting. When Mr. Peartree agreed to change his name, he managed to secure something in return. If the marriage ends any way other than his wife leaving him, then he gets half of her estate. And if she were to be deemed by the courts to have disappeared, that would count.”

“So he has motive”, Cas said. “As well as means and opportunity. Have the police interviewed him yet?”

She pulled a face.

“That is another reason for my interest in the case”, she said. “That awful man from Paddington, Winter, is on the case. In fact, it was he who got me involved.”

“How so?” I asked, surprised.

“I was seeing a client in the square, and he tried to question me”, she said, looking decidedly cross. “I applied my knee to a certain part of his anatomy when he got a little too close for comfort. Oh, I forgot; Mr. Peartree works as a jeweller in Marylebone. The shop is called simply 'C. Peartree's'.”

“Do you think Lady Frances has been kidnapped?” Cas asked.

“I do not”, she said. “Though I have nothing but gut instinct telling me that.”

“For you, Miss Bradbury, that is more than enough”, Cas said with a smile. “We will be delighted to investigate this case for you.”

She smiled.

II

We had hoped to catch Inspector Baldur at his station, but the sergeant there told us that he was off for a week, as his mate Adam had just had their sixth child. We therefore adjourned to his house in Canonbury, where the frazzled policeman looked glad for the interruption. After we had seen the newest addition to the Carsdale household (per the ongoing estrangement with his own family, the inspector had taken his omega's name, a most unusual practice at the time), we adjourned to the garden, leaving poor Adam to cope with the his huge brood. I noted with surprise that all four boys were alphas, which meant that the estrangement must have been deep.

“The Lady Frances case”, the inspector said, peering over the top of his newly-acquired gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes red with lack of sleep. “Yes, Winter has it. He is sure that the husband had done away with her. Only the funeral and our new king have kept it off the front pages, I think, though that won't last. I wish you joy of it!”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. He chuckled.

“Lady Frances' brother and sister were at the station on my last day, thinking we were the investigating station”, he said. “Trueman Square is right on the border between our patch and Paddington. And talk! They would not shut up! It took ten minutes just to get it across to them that they were in the wrong place, and then they just stormed out. No apology or anything. No manners, some nobs.”

He gazed fondly at his mate, who was being helped by their eldest child, Odin, to care for their most recent arrival, baby Freya.

“Mr. Peartree's shop is 'on your patch', though”, Cas pointed out. “Do you know him at all?”

“Actually I do”, the sergeant said with a smile. “There was an attempted break-in last year, and his partner, Mr. Xavier Delamore, was in the store and managed to catch one of the thieves. He's tall, dark and pretty unfriendly, or at least withdrawn. And huge, considering he's an omega. Mr. Peartree did the paperwork of the case for us and came down here to sign it off. A nice young chap. I haven't a clue what terrible deed he committed in a previous life to end up marrying Lady Frances, but it must have been really bad!”

+~+~+

We went next to the jeweller's shop in Marylebone. A tall dark man was elegantly wrapping something up for a customer, presumably as a gift for someone; the inspector had been right, for I would never have thought of this man as an omega. He handed the well-wrapped package over and bowed, and she left the shop, smiling. He looked at us curiously.

“Mr. Delamore?” Cas asked.

“Indeed”, the man said, clearly cautious. “Who might you gentlemen be?”

Cas seemed to stare at him for a time before answering.

“Mr. Novak and Doctor Winchester. We are investigating the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax.”

The shutters promptly slammed down on the man's face.

“I am afraid that I cannot help you”, he said coldly. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“This concerns your.... partner”, Cas said softly.

The man had turned to head out the back of the store, but he froze at those words and looked at Cas, who slowly nodded. Mr. Delamore seemed to slump.

“Of course!”, he said, sounding almost bitter. “You would know!”

“How long?” Cas asked.

“We opened five years ago”, he said resignedly. “A tiny place, in a backstreet not far from here. Then the end of the year before last, this place came on the market. It was perfect, but we couldn't afford it. So.....”

He sighed heavily.

“So Mr. Peartree married Lady Carfax for the money to expand the shop”, Cas finished for him.

“It was totally a business arrangement”, the omega said firmly. “They had all expected to gain access to their funds when Lord Ferdinando, the son, reached twenty-five last year. But when he did, it turned out their late father had thrown a little surprise into his will without telling them. If none of them were married before his eldest son's thirtieth birthday, then the bulk of the estate would go to charity, and they'd each be left with just a pittance. Lady Frances agreed to marry Chris, she would put the money in we needed for the shop, then they'd get a divorce at the first opportunity. The marriage had to have lasted a year and a day, you see.”

“How long were they married before she disappeared?” Cas asked.

“Four months”, Mr. Delamore said. “Obviously not long enough for her to get her hands on all her money, although the terms of the will did allow her to make the investment here.”

“If she is still alive”, I put in.

“Chris wouldn't hurt a fly!” the omega said scornfully. “That's the dumb thing here. Everyone loses by her disappearance. Business is down because the police keep coming here, and Chris' brother Woolly was up for a possible promotion, but that's impossible with this hanging over the family. And that dratted women's brother and sister were in here the other day – which reminds me, I need to buy a book on setting man-traps!”

I smiled.

“But at least you have the money for the shop”, I pointed out.

To my surprise, he shook his head.

“Lady Frances, typically, was paying it in small installments”, he said. “ Twenty per cent down, ten per cent each of the next three quarters, and the final fifty per cent at the end. Chris and I will have to close down and move back to Daggers Alley; we can't make the final payment with our cash flow the way it is.”

Cas looked at him thoughtfully.

“I think that I am beginning to visualize a new and curious angle on this crime”, he said slowly. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Delamore. It has been a pleasure meeting you.”

+~+~+

I waited until we were back in our rooms at Baker Street before asking a question, the answer to which I had a strong idea of.

“Mr. Peartree and Mr. Delamore”, I said.

“I am sure Mr. Delamore at least is too scrupulous to commit adultery”, Cas said pointedly. 

“How did you know?” I asked.

“His ring”, Cas said. “It was a stylized St. Christopher, for his partner's name. People who wear those for luck usually do so as a necklace, not a ring worn on the wedding-finger. And he moved to cover it up when he saw me looking at it. Plus there was his tone when he spoke of the marriage as a business arrangement, that of an underlying bitterness.”

“So what next?” I asked. 

“I am going to telegraph Miss Bradbury, and ask her to obtain certain information for me that I think may be useful”, he said. “There is no great hurry. Excepting our involvement, I do not expect any developments in this case for a day at least.”

Now just what did he mean by that?

III

Amongst my many failings as a human being was a tendency to worry at any excuse. Of course I said nothing to Cas about my concerns, and of course, he knew anyway. When he slid into bed beside me that evening, he ran a comforting hand around my jaw. I leaned into the embrace willingly.

“What is it?” he asked gently. I blushed.

“Just, seeing Mr. Delamore today”, I said. “It set me thinking again. If he and Mr. Peartree come through this, then they could set up home and have a family, three kids, a dog.....”

I trailed off. He smiled at me across the darkness.

“You are thinking that you and I will never have that”, he said softly.

“I am forty-nine years old”, I said, “so the odds on having a family are lengthening every day that passes, let alone a certain biological technicality. But I know that, despite his support for us, your father and mother still wish that you did.”

He kissed me gently on the forehead.

“I think Luke and Alfie have more than made up for that”, he teased.

That was true. Lucifer Novak had married his cousin Samandriel Novak some six years back, securing the estrangement between him and his brothers. Although the alpha had been in his late forties, the omega had given both four times since, and three of their offspring had been healthy alphas, the fourth sadly a girl who died in infancy. The pair had visited us after the second birth, and I do not think I had ever seen Cas' older brother look happier. For all he had done for me in those terrible years after Reichenbach, I was pleased at that.

“No mentioning of siblings in bed”, I reminded him. “It distracts me from the matter in hand.”

I reached down and grabbed his cock, which was already hard, and massaged it gently. He groaned, then groaned again when I rubbed my own cock up against his and started jerking us both off at one and the same time.

“Who wants kids?” he gasped. “What I want is you, Dean. All of you.”

He eased my hand away, and using that incredible flexibility of his, squatted over me, then took my cock in his hand and began to guide me inside him. He must have prepared himself for this, because I went in easily, sliding home as if I belonged there. Which I did.

“Come on, old man!” he teased. “Less than a year until you're fifty!”

I glared at him, and thrust violently upwards. He growled in approval, and countered with a thrust against me that nearly had me coming there and then. I managed to hold back, and we continued, warring as to who could make the other come first. And for once it was a battle I won (or he let me win), his walls suddenly clamping me tight as he came with a guttural snarl, although the action drew out my own orgasm and I came just seconds later. He leaned forward and ground his chest into mine, smearing his come between us.

“Round Two later”, he said happily, gently wiping us both down. I smiled, and waited until he had finished before pulling him down beside me, nuzzling behind him as I fell asleep.

+~+~+

The following day we went round to Carfax Place, and sought an interview with Mr. Peartree. He was a tall, handsome blond alpha, but clearly bowed down by recent developments. I noted the stylized letter 'X' on his ring which, in his distress, he had presumably forgotten to cover up.

“May I ask who has employed you to investigate this case?” he asked.

“Yes”, Cas said.

There was an awkward silence.

“You may ask”, he continued. “But as a private consulting detective, I extend that privacy to my clients. I am sure that you understand I cannot reveal their name. However, I will tell you that is in their interests that your wife be found as soon as possible, and I fully intend to make sure that happens.”

“Well then, you may be interested in this”, he said, taking a silver platter with a letter on it and passing it to Cas. “The original came this morning, hand-delivered. I informed the police at once, of course, but took a copy.”

Cas read it and passed it onto me. It was a hand-written note, done by Lady Carfax, stating that unless a large sum of money was deposited in a bank account within three days, she would be murdered by her captors.

“Is this your wife's writing?” Cas asked.

“It is”, the man said glumly. “Her scrawl is unmistakable. But even if I sold my half of the business and cashed in all my investments, I could barely make this sum. I will have to take out a loan.”

“I would advise you not to do that”, Cas said.

The man looked shocked.

“Mr. Novak, there may be no love in our marriage, but I would not let my wife die at the hands of the people who hold her.”

“We spoke with Mr. Delamore yesterday”, Cas said.

Our host visibly tensed.

“How is Xav doing?” he asked quietly.

“Business is down, of course”, Cas said. “Mr. Peartree, I wish to help you. But I need to ask some of your servants some questions, and I need you to be guided by me. If you do, I can all but guarantee that your wife will be physically unharmed.”

He smiled wanly.

“All but guarantee?” he asked.

“It is better that your complete ruination”, Cas said. “Tell me; did your wife have a personal maid?”

He laughed hollowly.

“We tried employing one several times, but none lasted”, he said. “She couldn't even keep a companion, with her attitude! Three of the housemaids cleaned her room on a rota system, and they all hated the job.”

“Please summon them”, Cas said, sitting back in his chair.

+~+~+

A few minutes later, three almost identical young girls were stood in a row by the fireplace, all looking decidedly nervous.

“I thank you ladies for sparing me your precious time”, Cas said courteously. “Now, Lady Carfax disappeared on a Friday. Which of you ladies had the onerous task of attending her for that particular day?”

The blonde one of the three stepped forward and curtsied.

“I did, sir”, she muttered.

“And you are?” Cas asked gently. She looked horrified, seemingly believing this was some sort of trick question.

“Sally, sir”, she quavered. “I do Thursdays and Fridays.”

“Hello, Sally”, Cas smiled. The girl seemed to relax a little under his warmth. “I need to know if Lady Frances went out at all prior to her disappearance, that is all.”

“Only to the library on Thursday, sir”, she said. “I went with her to carry her books.”

“Annoying”, Cas sighed. “Who had Wednesdays?”

“Me, sir”, another girl said, stepping forward. “Bobbie. She went to the City on Tuesday, and came back in a foul mood! We all hid as much as we could.”

“And Wednesday?” Cas prompted.

“She didn't go out that day, but she had two visitors”, the girl said. “Two very large, rough-looking men. I didn't like them one bit!”

“You did well to observe what you did”, Cas smiled. He looked at the third girl, and frowned. “And you are?”

“Millie, sir”, she said, curtseying. “I do weekends.”

Cas nodded, and stared at her in silence. She fidgeted.

IV

“I think you had better tell me precisely what happened, Millie”, he said quietly, his tone quite different from the one with which he addressed the other maids. The girl looked at her friends for support, clearly horrified.

“Sir?” she quavered.

“The police statements told me that Lady Carfax left the house some time on Friday afternoon, unseen by her staff, and was not missed until a maid took her tea up at four o'clock precisely”, Cas said. “But you clearly know something in addition to that. Please tell us.”

She gulped.

“There's a service-entrance at the back, sir”, she said. “Saturday, I was supposed to be cleaning the front room, but I stepped out to get some fresh air. Two men were hoisting a huge crate down the back path, and they had a cart waiting in Byland Terrace. I thought......”

She trailed off. I knew full well what she had thought.

“You have not mentioned this to the police?” Cas asked. 

She shook her head.

“I will pass this information on for you as an anonymous tip-off”, he said, to her evident relief, turning back to Mr. Peartree. “Thank you, sir, for your servants' time.”

Our host dismissed the three maids (Millie fairly bolted out of the room), and as the others followed her out the butler arrived with a telegram. His master read it, and went pale.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“They've arrested Xav!” he said, clearly angry. “He says they found the same paper as the ransom note was on the shop counter, and the message was written by the same type of pen he keeps next to it. Ridiculous! Anyone could have put that paper there! And it's definitely Fran's writing!”

“I doubt that anyone 'put it there'”, Cas said with a smile. “This has indeed been a most interesting case, Mr. Peartree. I suggest you attend to your partner, whilst the doctor and I will seek to find your wife.”

“She could be anywhere!” he said bitterly.

“In fact, I would expect her to be in one of precisely four places”, Cas said, to the mystification of both of us. “We shall of course do you the courtesy of informing you immediately there are any developments. But do not act until I tell you, sir. Your whole future depends on it.”

+~+~+

“How did you know that Lady Frances could only be in one of four places?” I asked, as our cab headed back to Baker Street.

“Because I know the nature of the evil mind behind this foul crime”, he said. “In theory, of course, she could be anywhere, and I really hope I am right because I would not wish to have to restrain Mr. Peartree from ruining himself to no end.”

“His wife's life may be in danger”, I reminded him.

“I sincerely doubt that”, he said. “We will dispatch a telegram to Inspector Baldur and ask if he can spare us a couple of constables. We will have to alert other constabularies in case, but if the lady is where I think she is, it would boost his standing to be in on the capture of our criminal. Especially considering who it is!”

+~+~+

The following day, Cas and I took a cab to Waterloo Station, where we found Inspector Baldur and two of his constables waiting for us. Cas purchased five first-class tickets for Sunbury-on-Thames, still refusing to say why we were heading there. He had asked me to bring my revolver which worried me.

“Not that I think we will really need it”, he said reassuringly. “Indeed, the danger posed by this particular criminal is quite unique. But it is better to be safe than sorry.”

We arrived at the Middlesex railway station, and two cabs took us to a large and rather ugly building on the riverside. There were high and spiked metal railings all the way around the outside. I looked inquiringly at my friend.

“It used to be an asylum”, he explained, “but they built a better and larger one over the river in Surrey, and sold this as a private house. A rather appropriate choice, if our criminal mastermind is here as I expect.”

Cas knocked at the door, and a maid opened it. To my surprise, he promptly pushed past her, which was not like him at all. The four of us hastily followed.

“Who is that, Florrie?” came an imperious voice from an open door to one side of the huge hall. Cas grinned, changed direction and walked over to it, pushing it open and walking through. We all followed, despite the maid's weak protestations. A large lady was sat on the couch, squinting at us in a most unwelcoming fashion.

“Who are you?” she demanded haughtily.

“Gentlemen”, Cas smiled. “Allow me to present the kidnapper of Lady Frances Carfax. Her name? Lady Frances Carfax!”

V

We all stared at him dumbfounded. 

“This is a private residence!” the lady snapped. “I will have you forcibly removed.”

“Not until Mr. Novak explains what the hell is going on”, Inspector Baldur said firmly, folding his huge frame into one of the fireside chairs. “This should be good.”

“It is”, Cas said. “The willful attempt to destroy a husband, orchestrated by his own wife.”

“Hardly a wife!” the lady snapped. “I know what he and that so-called partner of his got up to in that nasty little shop of theirs! I saw them kissing!”

“Quite recently”, Cas said, “Lady Carfax here made an unannounced call on her husband at his shop, and discovered that his relationship with his business partner was a rather closer one that he had led her to believe....”

“Adultery!” she spat out.

“Thinking and doing are two different things”, Cas retorted. “You decided then and there to embark on the malicious and willful destruction of a fellow human being. You arranged for two dubious-looking men to call on your apartment, and made sure they were seen by your servants. It is doubtless annoying for you that they disliked you sufficiently not to inform the police of that fact, but on Friday you walked out of your house unseen, and came here.”

“Why here?” I asked.

“I knew from her description that Lady Carfax liked her comforts”, Cas said. “My sources informed me that the Carfaxes had four country houses; here, one in Norfolk, one in Cornwall and one in Ross-shire. I estimated that, since she would not wish to put herself to any more expense than necessary, she would choose her nearest residence for her 'bolt-hole', though I did arrange for the three constabularies in those areas to be ready to check those houses, just in case. The sergeant will send them a telegram when we get back to let them know they need not.”

“You bastard!” she snapped.

“Quite possibly”, he said coldly. “You continued the charade by arranging for your actors to be seen removing a large crate along the back of your property, the implication being that there might be a body in there. But you did something far worse. You took not only sheets of writing paper from the shop where your husband's partner worked, but also took his pen to write the ransom note with.”

“Has he been charged?” she demanded, with an eagerness that was frankly sickening.

“No”, Inspector Baldur said. “I sent a warning to the man who took him in for questioning that developments this day might make such an action look foolhardy in the extreme.”

“I have done nothing wrong”, she said haughtily. “And you are still trespassing!”

“That is debatable”, Cas said. “A prosecution for extortion would however be difficult to prove.”

The lady sneered.

“But”, he went on, “it would have behooved the 'lady' here to check the contents of her late father's will before embarking on this act of vindictiveness. I rather fear she may find it an expensive oversight on her part.”

“What do you mean?” Lady Carfax demanded.

“Well, I took the trouble of doing what you palpably did not, and reading the whole will”, Cas said with a knowing smile. “One clause is particularly interesting. If any of you gets charged with a crime before Lord Ferdinando reaches the age of thirty, then that person loses their share of the estate, it being divided amongst the other beneficiaries. But I am sure that when your brother and sister encouraged you in this foolishness, they did mention that particular clause?”

From the lady's thunderous expression, that would have been a no, apparently. The inspector grinned and pulled out his handcuffs.

“Lady Frances Carfax”, he said slowly, “I am arresting you for attempted extortion. I must caution you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

“And that is not the worst part”, Cas added. 

“What?” I asked.

“The courts can grant Mr. Peartree a decree nisi on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour”, Cas said. “In six months, that becomes a decree absolute. Had you waited just two more months, my lady, you might have got away with it.”

“He will never get a court hearing that quickly”, she snapped.

“Next Monday, nine o'clock”, Cas snapped back. “Sometimes it pays to have friends in high places. And under the terms of your marriage, your husband now has full control of your funds, and can complete the purchase of his shop.”

She rose and advanced on him with surprising speed for a lady of her bulk, but Inspector Baldur was quicker, and he and the two constables restrained her, though it took a struggle. She was escorted from the room, spitting angrily but defeated.

+~+~+

The pleasure was repeated later that day when we called in at Paddington Station with Inspector Baldur and obtained the release of Mr. Xavier Delamore, who had been detained for questioning. The sour expression on Sergeant Winter's face was a joy to behold. Both jewellers thanked Cas profusely once they were outside.

“We are going to the shop for a celebration drink”, Mr. Peartree said. “You are welcome to join us, gentlemen.”

“I think we will let you have some time together”, Cas said. “But be prepared. I intend to recommend Peartree's to several friends of mine over the coming weeks, so you may experience a slight surge in business.”

They thanked him again and went off in a cab. Cas and I waited for Inspector Baldur, and we alighted from ours at Baker Street, leaving him and his constables to return to their station.

+~+~+

Our next case would involve a vampire, and blood.....


	4. Case 103: Lucifer Rising (1901)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire'.

I

It was the summer of the year nineteen hundred and one. Cas and I had just returned from another novel technological experience, namely a visit to a cinematographic theatre where they showed short 'films'. Of course these had been around for some years, but now they were several minutes long, rather than the seconds-long earlier efforts. Next thing we knew, they'd have the things in people's front rooms, and with those blasted new 'telephones' that were appearing in homes in the capital, there would be an end to peace in an Englishman's castle! I much preferred a good book, which reminded me – I had to cash the generous cheque I had received from the Strand magazine for 'All Hell Breaks Loose', which had again received exceptionally warm reviews. My publishers were, for once, being allowed to publish it in book form almost immediately after, the profits from the sales going to Cas' orphanage reconstruction.

There was a telegram waiting for us when we arrived home. Cas read it, then passed it over to me:

'The owner of Dibley Hall wishes to avail himself of the services of Mr. Castiel Novak and Dr. Dean Winchester, concerning recent vampiric occurrences in the vicinity. An appointment has been scheduled for you both at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, the seventeenth. No reply is necessary.'

“Presumptuous, I'd say”, I remarked, shrugging off my summer coat. The hot spell had given rise to frequent squally showers, and I had no wish to be caught out in one. Cas, as usual, was wearing the same worn-out long-coat he wore in all weathers. I still occasionally got pitying looks from some people who clearly thought I was being charitable to some tramp I had just happened across in my travels.

“The presumption he makes is that we will be curious enough to attend to find out what he wants”, my friend said. He looked at me hopefully. “I do not suppose you thought.....”

“Mrs. Lindberg will be bringing coffee up in a few minutes”, I said with a smile. “I spoke to her before we left this evening.”

He smiled back at me, then went over to the bookcase and extracted a book.

“The telegram comes from the town of Robertsbridge, which is in Sussex”, he said. “Let us see what we can glean on the subject.”

He read the book for a few moments before putting it down.

“Not much help”, he said. “One presumes this must be from the new owner.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The guide says that Dibley Hall, which lies some two miles from Robertsbridge, is in the possession of the Willenden family”, he said. “However, I happen to know that that is incorrect. Just after the late queen's passing, I remember reading in the Times that Mr. Thomas Willenden had been ruined by the Boer War, and had had to sell his ancestral home. I wonder who purchased it?”

“Are we going down tomorrow, then?” I asked.

“I think we are”, he said, looking across at me. “Do you not think we should?”

I felt uneasy, and it took some little thought before I realized as to why.

“This person must know you could find out their identity, given just a little time”, he said. “Yet he has chosen to call at such short notice that you do not have any. I do not like it.”

“If you are unsure, then I can decline and we can find out anyway”, he suggested.

I sighed, and shook my head.

“No, we will go”, I said. “But armed. And as it's a vampire, I will see if I have any silver bullets!”

Fortunately Mrs. Lindberg arrived with the coffee at that moment. It never ceased to amaze me how much of the stuff my friend got through. If he was ever the victim of a vampire attack, the poor creature would probably find itself imbibing as much coffee as blood, I was sure!

+~+~+

It was my bad luck that the railway line between Charing Cross and Robertsbridge passed through the town of Tonbridge, on whose station platforms I had so nearly lost my dear friend but a short time ago. I said nothing as the train waited an absurdly long time for no good reason, but Cas clearly knew the reason for my unease, and reached a reassuring hand across the compartment to take mine. I smiled at him.

We arrived at the little Sussex station at just after eleven o'clock, our train having been delayed by a minor landslip just outside Tunbridge Wells, and took a cab the remaining two miles to the hall. The building turned out to be not as large as I had expected, merely being the largest house in Dibley village, set slightly apart from the other houses and in its own copious gardens. Fortunately the large black iron gates were open, presumably in anticipation of our arrival, and our cabbie dropped us outside the front door and said he would be 'down the pub' when we were finished. I noticed with some alarm the speed at which his horse all but galloped away back down the road to the gate, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

Cas knocked at the door, and a mournful-looking butler opened it almost at once. Having looked at us as if we were something the cat might have dragged in (though with Cas' appearance, that was not a totally unjustified belief), he sighed heavily and stood back to let us in. We found ourselves in a large entrance-hall, and he took our hats and coats before escorting us to the waiting-room. Apparently we were not considered worthy enough for him to waste actual words on. I would have remarked on the matter to Cas, but he seemed particularly taken with the coat-stand that the butler had placed our items on, so I thought it best not to interrupt him. If he wished to commune with the local furniture, so be it.

Finally, a footman came and led us to a small study into which we were ushered. He did not follow us in or even announce us, which again was odd.

“Gentlemen, please be seated.”

The voice came from a dark-haired man sat in one of the fireside chairs. He was stroking a large dog of indeterminate breed, and I immediately thought back to the late Growley, though this dog was nothing like as ugly. The man himself was heavily tanned, or possibly a half-caste; in the dim firelight it was hard to tell. As was his age; he could have been anything from twenty-five to forty, though he was quite definitely an alpha. Cas sat in the chair opposite, and I stood behind him. The fact I had a large solid object between myself and the hearth monster was sheer coincidence.

Yes it was!

“Thank you for coming”, the man said. “My name is Guy de Klerk, and I recently purchased this property. It was a thriving estate, complete with its own sawmill and other industries, but someone is attempting to destroy it. I have asked you here today to see if you would be prepared to investigate the matter for me.”

His accent was Dutch, I guessed, which would suggest he was a Boer. That, with the recent end of the interminable Boer War, would not go down well in England at this time. The might of the British Empire had been surprisingly well-tested by the little Dutch republics of Transvaal and the Orange Free State, and matters had not been helped by the fact that the British reasons for the war had been basically greed, coupled with fears that the republics might combine and/or obtain a sea outlet, and then become a major regional power that would frustrate the on-off dream of a British-dominated Cape-Cairo axis across the Dark Continent. I could imagine someone like Mr. de Klerk would not be well received, especially as an incomer in a country area like this.

“I shall consider it”, Cas said. “Please tell me what has happened. All the details, if you please.”

I looked at him in surprise. There seemed to be a slight implication that he might be expecting our potential client to either lie or withhold information. People did, of course, but I did not see any reason for such an assumption here.

“As I am sure you know, I purchased this house from the previous owner, Mr. Thomas Willenden”, our host began. “His family have been here since the Norman Conquest and held the Hall since the time of the great Elizabeth. However, he had invested heavily in areas that were affected by the war between my people and his. I call them my people, although I have lived in England for the past five years, managing my investments at a distance. It is the opinion of the local people that I inveigled Mr. Willenden into the financial disaster that befell him, though his investment decisions were all his own. Because of that, I understand that they refer to me as 'The Sussex Vampire', and the house as 'Lucifer Rising'.”

“Ah, the vampiric reference”, Cas said, “Please continue.”

“It is not just that”, he said. “There have been two instances of people being attacked and robbed in the area. In both cases, the victims were rendered unconscious with an attack from behind, and in both cases, bite marks were found on their bodies afterwards. Both survived.”

“Surely the locals cannot think you have resorted to robbery?” I objected. He turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said heavily, “both cases occurred whilst I was away from the house. I rarely leave it, so naturally people think it strange that I was seen out on both days. Unfortunately at both times I was walking back from the station, so I did not have an alibi.”

“You walk from the station?” I asked, surprised. He nodded.

“My London doctor, Mr. Petts of Harley Street, suggested moderate exercise, bearing in mind I spend much time at home poring over my investments”, he explained.

I nodded, and looked expectantly at Cas.

“Who were the two victims of this 'vampire'?” he asked.

“The first was a serving-girl at the Feathers”, our host said. “She had been taking a short-cut through the churchyard, and she described someone walking towards her who could have been me or several million other men. The man went past and then attacked her from behind, knocking her unconscious. The second was Jeb Watkins, the blacksmith. He's married to Mr. Willenden's cousin if I remember rightly, and built like a brick out-house. Someone came up behind him when he was drunk one evening and knocked him out. Doctor Phillips in the village said there had been mild blood loss on each occasion.”

Cas nodded.

“Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.

“I do not think so”, Mr. de Klerk said.

“Then I am sorry to tell you that we will not be taking your case.”

II

I stared at Cas in astonishment. 

“What?” I asked.

“May I know why?” Mr. de Klerk asked stiffly.

“A consulting detective requires many things to do his job”, Cas said, “but first and foremost of those if the absolute honesty of his client. You have deliberately withheld a piece of information from me. That is unacceptable.”

“Sir, I assure you.....” he began.

“You have five minutes to produce it”, Cas interrupted, taking out his pocket-watch. “After that time, the doctor and I will be taking the train back to London.”

The silence was palpable, but it was broken by a new voice from behind the screen.

“Always knew you were a sharp one, Castiel.”

And out walked... Mr. Lucifer Novak! I stared in astonishment.

“How did you know?” he asked his younger brother curiously.

“The number of silken red-lined high-quality cloaks is surprisingly low in this part of Sussex”, Cas said, unsmiling. “And once I saw that, I recognized your cologne when we entered the room. If you will take a bath in it....”

“Hey!”

I was quietly pleased that, of all the Novaks to appear, it was Lucifer. Not just from his help during the terrible times after I lost Cas in Lawrence, but his own estrangement from his other brothers after his marriage to his cousin Alfie had strengthened the ties between him and my beloved Cas.

“Why are you here?” I asked. 

“Because he and Mr. de Klerk are related in some way”, Cas said coolly. “How, pray?”

Lucifer Novak had walked over to where Mr. de Klerk was sat in his chair, and stood beside our host.

“Guy is Alfie's half-brother, from his mother's first marriage”, Lucifer Novak explained. “That's family, in my book. He did not tell you, because the locals would hate him even more if they found out, but by blood Guy is a Willenden. His great-grandmother went out to the Cape Colony, as it was then, during the Napoleonic Wars.”

He looked beseechingly at his brother.

“You could have just asked me”, Cas said plaintively. His brother shrugged. 

“Didn't want you to take the case just because of family”, he said. 

“No pressure, then”, Cas grumbled, but I could see a smile beginning to form. “Of course I'll help. You only had to ask, Luke.”

“You know how much I hate doing that!” his brother grumbled. 

“Exactly!” Cas said.

His brother scowled at him.

+~+~+

“You said that you purchased this property from Mr, Thomas Willenden”, Cas said over dinner. “Does he have any family?”

“He does indeed!” Mr. de Klerk said. Lucifer Novak had left to go back to London, after thanking his brother for his help, so there were just the three of us at dinner. “He has two brothers and a sister, a wife, four children of his own and two grand-children, plus copious numbers of nephews and nieces. The village is crawling with them!” 

“But Mr. Thomas is head of the family?” Cas asked, helping himself to potatoes.”

“Actually, no”, our host said. “That would be his mother, Mabel. Now that her son is no longer lord of the manor, she holds supreme sway over her brood. Think Attila the Hun, but with a worse attitude.”

I gulped at that image. Cas nodded, and seemed to be thinking of something. Some time passed before his next question.

“So we are looking for a vampire with restraint”, Cas smiled. “On another subject, did you inherit the serving staff from Mr. Willenden?” 

“Hardly any of them”, our host said. “Most quit when their master sold out to me. The only one who remained was Todman, the butler.”

“Why him?” I wondered. I always thought butlers were supposed to be amongst the most loyal of staff.”

“Apparently he had had a disagreement with Mr. Willenden over pay”, Mr. de Klerk said. “He was the only one who stayed, but I found it easy enough to bring in help from the other villages. Especially Fircombe the other side of the river, which has always had a rivalry with Dibley. No Willendens there!”

Cas smiled.

“I begin to think I can see a solution to your little problem”, he said. “But you will need to do exactly as I say, and I do mean exactly.”

“I place myself in your capable hands”, he smiled.

+~+~+

Naturally Cas and I had been given separate rooms, albeit adjoining ones and right at the back of the house. I silently thanked Lucifer Novak for that,

The elder Novak's quick departure had been forced because his mate Alfie was feeling a little unwell, and as he was experiencing a lot of morning sickness in this, his fifth pregnancy, his alpha did not wish to be away from him for any length of time. Indeed, the blond alpha had all but run out of the door to his waiting cab, and was clearly desperate to get back to his mate. I could relate to that.

Cas came through the connecting door and sat on the bed, looking thoughtful. I came and sat beside him.

“Do you regret it?” I asked softly.

“Not having children?” he mused. “I thought you were supposed to be the doctor. All the times you have 'examined' me, and you have not yet noticed that I lacking the correct equipment for that sort of thing?”

I shoved him gently. The bastard!

“I am sorry for the loss of your son”, I said carefully, “but did you ever feel the desire to have another one?” 

“That would have been impossible”, he said with a sigh. “I knew that a long time ago.”

“When?” I asked, curious. He looked across at me.

“About thirty years ago, when I came back to my college rooms and found a devilishly-handsome young student there”, he said, his blue eyes boring into mine. “And his way of greeting me was..... memorable.”

III

I kissed his neck, and began to work his shirt off of him. He sighed contentedly. 

“I shall never live that down”, I said ruefully. “But I just saw you, smelled you – and I knew. You were it for me, Cas. You always have been, and always will be.”

I gently stood him up and removed his trousers and underpants, then eased his socks off. He stood there before me in all his naked glory, and I silently thanked God for letting me have this, before he repeated the process with me, sliding my shirt off and running his hands all over my chest, making me shudder. He eased my trousers off, then my socks and underwear until I was as naked as he was. Then he took me and gently laid me down on the bed, before climbing in quietly beside me.

This was.... nice. No frantic love-making, a strange reversal of our first memorable meeting. This was two alphas in their late forties (I had better remind myself of that, as I had barely six months before a certain unpleasant milestone of a birthday lurking ahead of me) holding each other, and gently worshipping each other's bodies. I could have grown a little nervous of how my body was ageing of late; that irritating bulge above my cock refused to quite disappear despite my frequent exercising, and I always felt rather plain in contrast to Cas, who remained as gloriously muscled as he had ever been. Yet the way he uttered quiet prayers of thanks when working his way all over me, and especially the way he tended to me when he knew I was feeling a little low, that made him truly magnificent. 

He eased himself on top of me, and began rubbing our bodies together, our cocks both growing rapidly erect with all the friction. I groaned with pleasure, and let him take me along for the ride. This was no charge towards orgasm, just a gentle stroll, and we had all the time in the world. I do not know how long it was before he finally came, and I followed him less than a minute later. He immediately wiped us both down before going over to lock the door, then returning to snuggle in behind me, holding me tight. I fell asleep truly happy, wishing this could last forever.

+~+~+

Cas surprised me the following morning by saying that he had to sort certain things out in London for a day or so, but he would return as soon as he could, and he instructed Mr. de Klerk not to leave the house for anything short of a major fire. I found it hard to get to sleep that night without my usual human furnace wrapped around me.

The following day there was a telegram from Cas to say he would be back that evening. Mr. de Klerk wanted to take some important papers to his lawyer in Polegate, so I offered to go in his stead, even though it involved a change of trains at Hastings. And when I reached Polegate, I found that the lawyer had travelled to a nearby village, to stay at a friend's house there. As Mr. de Klerk had insisted I deliver the papers in person, I continued onto there, and found the man easily enough, handing over the documents.

The village itself was a beautiful place, set in its own little dean, and I loved it on sight. The nearest station was some miles away, so I decided to have lunch at the tavern there and explore the area a little. After spending a little time in the Norman church on the edge of the village, I came out and was starting back to order a carriage when I chanced to look up. On the gently-rising hill to the north, a single cottage was slumbering in the afternoon sunshine, smoke rising lazily from its chimney. It was an idyllic picture, and I almost wished I had the artistic talent to commit the scene to paper, so as to preserve it forever. I mentioned my experience to Cas on his return that evening, but otherwise thought nothing more of it. 

Cas, I later found out, paid rather more attention that I gave him credit for.

+~+~+

The following day there was no sign of our host. I stumbled into breakfast to find Cas there already, sipping what had to have been his third coffee from his alertness. 

“Oh, Todman”, Cas said, when the butler brought in the morning mail, “your master said to tell you he will be away in London all day. He will return by the seven o'clock train, but he plans to walk back from Robertsbridge as usual. He said not to send the carriage, even if it rains.”

“I see, sir”, the butler said gravely. He looked about as depressed as our host's dog, which was clearly miserable without its master around.

“Our host hopes to pull off a financial coup today”, Cas told me. “If it all works out, he will be spending most of his time in London rather than here. That will be all, Todman.”

I would not say the butler was eavesdropping on our conversation, though he was certainly lingering. He headed reluctantly to the door.

“Oh, and Mr. de Klerk also said that he would like a copy of the Telegraph”, Cas called after him, making him jump. “He is meeting someone on the train, so he may not have time to get one himself. Is anyone in the house going to the village today? If not, the doctor or I can walk down?”

“I can make sure someone fetches one, sir”, the butler said, and left. 

Cas smiled knowingly. 

+~+~+

The hot weather built up again during the day, and that night the storm broke anew. As seven o'clock approached, I suggested sending a carriage for Mr. de Klerk anyway, but Cas demurred, saying we had to respect the man's wishes, and water never hurt anyone. I was surprised, but accepted it. 

By nine o'clock there was still no sign of our errant host. But there was a loud banging at the front door. Todman went to answer it, and returned with two people, a large and angry-looking elderly lady and a somewhat bedraggled village constable. Both had clearly walked from the village, as they were wet through. Cas ushered the constable over to the fire and insisted that he remove his wet coat and cloak before starting.

“This lady is Mrs. Willenden”, he began, “and I am Police Constable Hornblower. Her grand-daughter Wilhelmina was attacked tonight, and the hallmarks are that it was the same person as committed the last two attacks. I am sorry to ask this, gentlemen, but do either of you know the whereabouts of Mr. de Klerk?”

“Of course”, Cas smiled. I stared at him in surprise. 

IV

“You do?” the constable said, clearly take aback. 

“I should”, Cas said. “I sent him there.”

“Where?”

Cas looked at his pocket-watch.

“He is probably still at the station”, he said.

“Wait a minute”, the sergeant said, now clearly as confused as I was. “I was told he was due back by the seven o'clock train.”

“Who by?” Cas asked.

“Pardon?”

“Who told you?” Cas asked patiently.

“This is a village, sir”, the constable said patiently. “Everyone knows everyone else's business. That's just the way it is.”

“I see”, Cas said. “So if you know 'everyone else's business', then you could head over to the station and collect Mr. de Klerk?”

The sergeant looked at him warily, then at me. Something finally twigged.

“Ye Gods, you're Doctor Winchester!” he said, aghast. “That means you must be Mr. Castiel Novak! The detective!”

“Rupert!” the woman barked. “The attack!”

The constable collected himself with an effort. 

“Yes, of course”, he said. “Must be headed over to the station to pick up Mr. de Klerk. I will bring him back here.”

“You would be in for a long wait, constable”, Cas said airily.

“What?”

“At this precise moment in time, the 'station' that our host is at is in fact a police station in central London”, Cas said. “It is run by our good friend, Inspector Baldur. I sent Mr. de Klerk there this morning.”

“Why?” the constable demanded. 

“Because I wished him to have an unimpeachable alibi for the next attack, which I knew would happen this evening”, Cas said. “And sitting locked in a police cell all day is, I think you would agree, a rather good alibi.”

The constable sat down heavily in a chair. I poured him a stiff drink, and was not surprised when he downed it on one shot. I needed one myself. 

“You knew there would be an attack tonight?” he asked.

“Of course”, Cas said. “In a way, I encouraged it.”

The constable looked like he needed a refill, but I served myself first. For medical reasons, naturally.

“I reasoned that the most likely person behind the attacks would be someone who resented the newcomer in the village”, Cas said. He looked hard at the lady standing by the doorway. “And who better than the matron of the family disinherited by them?”

“I hope you can prove that, sirrah”, she said acidly.

“I am sure that your grand-daughter would not object to an examination by the doctor”, he said smoothly. “Not the village doctor, who like many round here is 'in your pocket', but by my independent-minded friend here. He will find that the vampiric puncture wounds are fake, and that there has been no blood loss at all.”

“I will not allow her to be subjected to that!” the woman shouted.

The constable stood up.

“Mabel”, he said slowly, “what have you done?”

“Fallen into a trap”, Cas said. “I made sure that the butler, her agent who chose to remain inside the house, knew not only of his master's absence, but that this might be the last one for some time, thus prompting an attack tonight. Doubtless had you had time, you would have found someone less directly connected with you, but you only had hours before what you thought to be your adversary's return for the last time in months. Mr. de Klerk will leave the cells at ten o'clock precisely to spend the night in a most commodious hotel in London, courtesy of my brother Gabriel, and return here tomorrow morning.”

She moved towards him, but I moved quicker, standing in her way and baring my teeth at her. I thought for one moment she might strike me, but she hissed an obscenity that no true lady should even be aware of and turned on her heel, leaving the room in a flurry of crinoline 

“There will be no prosecution”, the constable said dourly. “She may not have driven him out, but she has pretty much gotten away with it!”

“I am not so sure about that” Cas smiled. “Once our host is returned, we shall spend a few days here before returning to London. I think the non-Willenden residents of Dibley, and particularly the villagers of Fircombe across the valley, would welcome some gossip in their daily lives!”

“We are spending some time here?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “And perhaps we can make one or two more trips to the Downs whilst we are here.”

God, I loved him so much!

+~+~+

In our next adventure together, Methusaleh is increasingly concerned that he may not live to see a ripe old age.....


	5. Case 104: Born Under A Bad Sign (1901-1902)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned as the case of 'old Abrahams, who is in terror of his life'.

I

I have often observed, over the many cases that Cas and I undertook together, that he frequently ran a difficult line between justice and the law. Of course to many people they are one and the same thing, but like all tools, the law can be a blunt instrument when what is often needed is a more delicate touch. Cas often effected solutions that were borderline (and sometimes beyond borderline) illegal, but which always better served the interests of those involved - well, the innocent parties at least! Yes, there was often a significant difference between justice and the law.

In this case, the difference was a dying man. And I just stood there, and let him die.

+~+~+

As I have written more than once, I often wondered if Cas ever regretted not having left a son to carry on his name, his only son having died unbeknownst to him when the latter was five. I of course had Ben – Master Braeden, now entering his seventeenth year, whose mother sent me regular reports of his excellent progress towards adulthood, and who thanks to my increasing literary success would come into a handsome sum when he attained his majority. Neither Cas nor I had known the joys and terrors of having a family with a mate, and I wondered if he missed that.

In December of 1901, I learned the hard way of the terrors side of the equation. The reader may remember that, during our vampiric venture into Sussex, Mr. Lucifer Novak had to hurry home to be with his pregnant mate Alfie. The poor omega had lost a daughter at his last birth, and both Cas and I shared Lucifer's anxiety this time round as a result. On the first day of the last month a desperate message arrived, begging that I come immediately. Alfie had gone into labour, and both men wanted me to supervise the delivery, so Cas and I dressed hurriedly and rushed to his brother's house in Kensington. It was a torrid time, for poor Alfie was in the process of delivering twins, which was very rare for omegas. Mercifully I was able to both help him through it and coax both of the new Novaks into the world – a girl and an alpha - but there was blood everywhere, and the poor father looked as if he was going to faint. I told Cas to send back to Baker Street for some clothes and toiletries for me, as I would clearly have to stay in the house for some days to monitor all three of them. I would always remember the broken look on his brother's tear-stained face, as he confronted the prospect of losing both his new children and/or the love of his life.

Fortunately Alfie recovered well enough, and after a week of care and attention the children had put on enough weight for me to decide they were out of any imminent danger. But the sight of the normally stoic and reserved Lucifer curled round his much smaller omega mate, trembling and holding him as if he was a fragile piece of china, stayed with me. Like him, I knew how painful it was to come close to losing someone I loved.

+~+~+

During that autumn I had struggled to complete 'Hunteri Heroici', our treasure-hunt adventure, which was published in the Strand in the weeks leading up to Christmas. That was a busy time of the year for doctors, what with the early onset of winter illnesses, and I was as usual 'on call' to help out at my old surgery if required. I came home tired and wet one day, and was less then delighted when a visitor was announced not long after supper. The woman in question was an elderly lady, poorly dressed but presentable, called Mrs. Minton.

“I know I shouldn't be troubling Gentlemen such as your good selves”, she babbled, “but I have been so worried that....”

“Tea.”

She looked at Cas in surprise, her flow of verbage temporarily stemmed. 

“Sir?” she asked. 

“Madam, you are quite clearly a lady of sense.” He held up his hand when she looked poised to object, or worse, start off again. “Your clothes are of a basic standard, yet the repairs in them are very precise, the stitching being of the highest quality. You can afford a pair of spectacles, even though you are not wearing them today; the bridge-marks on your nose are quite distinctive, and that tells me you manage your money successfully, as such aids are not cheap. May I take it that something in your job as a cleaner has caused you distress?”

She stared at him in amazement.

“Scuffed shoes”, I explained, gesturing to her footwear. “People who clean for a living make distinctive marks when they kneel down.”

“If the doctor is finished letting daylight in upon my magic”, Cas smiled, “you will finish your tea, sample one of Mrs. Lindberg's delicious cakes, sit back, and tell us precisely what brings you here today. From the very beginning. Take your time, please.”

She did as he said, and sighed happily over the cream cake.

“I live in Lambeth, sir”, she said, “and my husband Bert works on the underground. Our kids have all moved out now, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but I miss them. And to help make ends meet, I clean for two gentlemen. Mr. Riseley is a lawyer who has a small apartment in Waterloo close by the railway station, and I do mornings there, then afternoons I go to old Mr. Abrahams' place in the Temple. Beaconsfield Mews, a very nice area.”

“The Inns of the Court”, Cas mused. “Is that Judge Methusaleh Abrahams, retired only recently?”

“That's him, sir”, she said, clearly pleased that her employer was known to us. “A lovely old man, he lives alone now his wife has passed, but his son visits from time to time. The place is too big for one person, but he doesn't want to move, and nor should he!”

“His son wishes him to move?” Cas asked.

“I think he suggested it once, but Mr. Abrahams said no”, she said. “The son – Mr. Jeroboam – is not a bad man, but I always thinks he is eyeing the place up for when the old man dies. But that's just my opinion.”

“And most probably a correct one”, Cas smiled. “I take it something has happened to your Mr. Abrahams?”

She blushed.

“It really isn't my place, sir”, she said apologetically. “But about three months ago, I overheard young Mr. Jeroboam talking to his father. Some dangerous criminal he'd put inside as a judge was out after twenty years, and Mr. Jeroboam was anxious lest he try something. It was the judge that sent him down, see?”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “But there was more, was there not?”

She nodded.

II

“Up till that talk, Mr. Abrahams was fine”, she said. “But after his son told him about that man coming out, he seemed to just collapse in on himself. Since then he's not been out to the garden at all, and it's a right mess, if you don't mind me saying so. I think he hardly ever uses the front rooms of the house, especially the main room which has a big bay window. And I always knew he had a gun, but lately he's taken to keeping it with him at all times. I don't know if he's told his son about that, but it terrifies me.”

“He has not changed towards you?” Cas asked.

“Not as such, sir”, she said, “though he gets nervous very easily. I was delayed last Wednesday and half an hour late, the day there was that accident on the bridge, and I thought he might not let me in!”

Cas frowned.

“I do not suppose you noted the name of the person who has caused all this unrest?” he asked. 

“No”, she said, “but I remember the date. It was the second of October, the day after my eldest son's birthday. He had brought the grandchildren round for the evening, and young Billy was talking about this newfangled ship that sails underwater, if you please!”

“That is excellent, Mrs. Minton!” Cas smiled. “Well done for remembering such an important detail. I can ask my police friends who it was that served a long sentence and was released on that precise date. Most observant of you.”

The lady blushed at his praise, and I was half afraid that she was going to start simpering at him!

“Thank you, sir”, she smiled.

Cas leant forward.

“I am going to investigate this case for you, Mrs. Minton”, he said gravely. “But it is only fair to warn you that there may be an element of danger involved. If someone is watching the judge's house, then we must consider your safety as much as his.”

“Mine, sir?” she said, wide-eyed. 

“Yours”, Cas said firmly. “You may choose not to continue working there, of course, and in the circumstances that would probably be advisable, but if you stay, you must ensure that you go there at exactly the same time every day, and leave at exactly the same time as well. If someone is watching the house, they will quickly learn this and avoid acting around those times.”

“I promise, sir”, she said. “The judge – do you think you can save him?”

“I will do what I can”, Cas promised. 

+~+~+

“You do not seem very optimistic”, I observed once the cleaner had gone.

“I am not”, he said ruefully. “The potential killer has all the advantages in a situation like this. Our best hope is to salvage what we can. But perhaps we can hope for a Christmas miracle.”

I could not know then that the agent of that miracle was to be my good self.

+~+~+

As well as functioning as a spare pair of hands in bust times for my old surgery, I also still attended occasional fund-raising functions for them. It was this altruism that was to yield an unexpected reward at Langstone House, the home of the truly frightful Mrs. Antonia Best, one of the grande dames of London society. She was so bad that Cas had flatly refused an invitation to come with me to the New Year's Eve Dance, citing a desperate desire to be as far away from Lady Antonia was was physically possible for the preservation of his ear-drums. The coward! Though at least it would stop her simpering at him too!

Besides, Cas had promised to make it up to me later. I smiled at the thought.

One of the people I often met at these functions was Doctor Owen Pardew, a dry if not positively sarcastic medic who tended to some of the most important people in the city. We would often discuss our patients – not by name of course – and laugh over the foolishness of humanity. 

“I had a most interesting case only last week”, he said. “Absolute confidence, of course.”

“Of course, I promised. 

“In the Temple, a patient who is moderately wealthy has but one son to inherit”, he said. “However, he has recently had cause to doubt that the boy is acting in his best interests, pressuring him to sell the large house he inhabits. The old man has virtually no connection with the outside world except for this cleaning-lady, who comes in and 'does' for him ever afternoon. Not one of my regulars, but Claridge, who normally treats him, had to leave for the North because of a legal wrangle over an unexpected inheritance. He recommended me instead.”

A faint memory stirred. “What was wrong with him?” I asked.

“Nerves”, Doctor Pardew said shortly. “He seemed terrified of something, but he wouldn't say what. And I have a feeling he is already taking something, judging from his dilated pupils, though he said he wasn't. He has a moderate heart condition, so a severe enough shock could kill him.”

“Is this fear a recent thing?” I asked.

“He says it started two months ago”, Doctor Pardew said. “Nice old buffer.”

I made a mental note to tell Cas about this as soon as I got home.

+~+~+

I was able to slip away from the dance some little time before midnight, as I naturally wanted to welcome in the New Year with Cas. And in Cas.

He grunted pleasurably as I shifted inside of him. We had both come once already, but I was still hard and horny, and besides, I needed to tell him of my discovery. He lay back panting, running a lazy hand across my chest as I leaned over him.

“Very interesting”, he said. “Inspector Baldur is coming round tomorrow morning, so he may have some information as to our freed felon.”

I changed my angle and teased his prostate, eliciting a moan.

“Cas”, I said carefully, “you know my birthday is coming up soon?”

He smirked.

“Yes”, he said. “Which one is it again?”

I punished him by forcing his legs back and pummelling his prostate, causing him to come for a second time. I was close myself, but I held back for now.

“You know full well!” I sniped. “And I do not want you to make a big thing of it!”

He looked at me through slitted eyes.

“So if I let you do whatever you want with me for that day”, he asked casually, “that will be enough?”

That was it. I came violently, panting hard at the sudden exertion.

“Hell, yes!” I bit out.

In retrospect, I should have suspected something from the pleased expression on his face, but what little remained of my mind was still trying to pull itself together.

III

Inspector Baldur came round just after eleven following morning. I felt sorry for him that he had to work on New Year's Day, but Cas had arranged with Mrs. Lindberg to bake two whole chocolate cakes, one for his colleagues at the station and the other for his ever-expanding family, so perhaps there were compensations.

“No doubt as to who your man is”, he said, accepting a coffee as he sat down by the fire. “Mr. Hubert Morris, known as 'Bruiser' to his few remaining friends. Old Abrahams sent him down back in 'Eighty-Two for his part in the Penruth Robbery. Two members of the family killed, and he got twenty years.”

“A pity they did not hang him”, I said grimly.

“Two of his co-accused went to the gallows”, the inspector said. “I called in at Henriksen's house before coming here just to check the details. One of them killed Mr. Penruth, and the other struck the fatal blow that finished off his wife. Your man shot her first, but his lawyer managed to convince the jury that she was still living when Benton struck her, so Morris avoided the drop, worse luck. A fourth member, Parkes, was jailed for seven years for aiding and abetting. He's kept his nose clean since getting out, much to the old man's surprise.”

“How did you catch them?” Cas asked.

“They had no kids of their own, but it was the robbers' bad luck they didn't know the Penruths had just started looking after their nephew, Stephen”, he said. “Lad wrote down everything including descriptions, and once they had gone, even fenced off where the footprints were. They gave him witness protection, of course, and he went abroad somewhere.”

“And what about Mr. Morris?” Cas asked. 

“He's got a job down the docks, just a few miles from the judge's house”, the inspector said. “I've alerted the local station, and they've increased patrols in the area, but we can't watch the place around the clock. I'm sending a man to speak with Morris' employers as well, just so he knows we're keeping an eye on him.”

“That is good of you”, Cas smiled. “What is Henriksen's impression of the man? I always value his judgement.”

“He says he thinks might stay out of trouble this time”, the sergeant said. “He had a young kid before he went inside, and they got given to his brother for custody. I suppose that's possible, though the general rule is once a crim, always a crim.”

“That”, Cas said, “is sadly true.”

+~+~+

The next development in the case caught us unaware a few days later, when Inspector Baldur called round unannounced. His first words were shocking.

“I thought you two gentlemen might care to know that someone nearly died in Beaconsfield Mews last night.”

I froze.

“Judge Abrahams?” Cas asked.

The inspector shook his head. 

“No, His neighbour, Mr. Edward Smith.”

“How?” I asked.

“The doctor who examined him said he suspected poison, but he could not be sure until further tests were made”, the inspector said. “It may have been a case of mistaken identity, you see. The Smiths live at Maytree House, and Mr. Abrahams lives at Mayfair House. Possibly the attacker got the wrong man.”

“With poison?” Cas asked, dubiously. “That would be unlikely, unless....”

His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be thinking deeply. The two of us waited.

“Inspector”, Cas said quietly, “is there a Mrs. Smith?”

“No, she died some years back”, he said. “His daughter looks after him now; she has a house a few streets away in Chesham Lane. Why?”

“Where is she now?” Cas asked.

“She went with her father to hospital, but she has a job at a dress-shop near Bishopsgate”, he said. “I would suppose that she is there now.”

“We need to see her”, Cas said urgently. “Do you have the name of the place?”

+~+~+

The general manager of Minniver's was a Mr. Charles Ratland, an unfortunate name as his features reminded me of Mr. Darwin's assertion that rats and humans shared a common ancestor. Some, it seemed, has not evolved that far apart. He was most definitely not pleased to see us.

“This is a busy department store, gentlemen”, he said testily. “I cannot spare one of our girls for half an hour of idle chatter.”

I expected Cas to protest, but to my surprise he stood up.

“That is quite understandable”, he said. “I promise that we will trouble you no further. I merely wished to spare you the embarrassment of a visit from the police. Maybe several visits.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “What has that dratted girl gone and done?”

Cas fixed him with an icy glare. The man edged backwards.

“'That dratted girl' has done nothing”, he said. “She may, however, be the possessor of information pertinent to a current investigation with which I am involved. But I understand your preference for official channels. And your customers will doubtless be reassured when four or five policemen descend to take her to the nearest station for several hours of questioning. And then bring her back, which knowing their alck of timing will probably be during the busiest part of your day. The London 'bobby' can be a blunt instrument, and I personally would not want a whole load of them in a shop of mine at any time, doubtless gawking at the customers....”

He was scurrying for the door.

“I will send her in at once!” he squeaked, and he was gone.

I chuckled.

IV

Miss Patricia Smith would, I thought to myself, make a worryingly good murderess. She was cool, calm and collected, and seemed totally unperturbed by our visit.

“Yes, I did wonder if the events next door had something to do with poor Father”, she said. “At least, once they assured me that he would be all right, and I could leave him. Old Mr. Abrahams is a nice man, and a good neighbour as well. I had taken to doing some shopping for him of late, as his son's visits were somewhat infrequent.”

“I would greatly value your opinion as to young Mr. Abrahams”, Cas said. “I have never met him myself.”

She smiled.

“I would not call him young”, she said, curling her lip slightly. “And it would be stretching matters to call him a gentleman.” She laid her well-kept hands on the table, and I could see the glint of a thin gold ring. “I am engaged to be married to Mr. Albert Flint, who works at the bakery down the road, but despite that, Mr. Abrahams made certain suggestions that were most unbecoming. He seemed to think that because he was an alpha and my fiancé was a beta, his behaviour was in some way acceptable.”

“How did you react to that?” I asked. She looked hard at me.

“He was unwise enough to do it whilst I was holding a knitting needle”, she said pointedly. “He did not repeat the error!”

I winced.

“Did you do all of Mr. Abrahams' shopping of late?” Cas asked.

“Everything except the tea”, she said. “He had a thing for the sort of rare brands one does not get at the shops around here, and his son would arrange for them to be shipped in once every two months.”

“The son did not bring them himself, then?” Cas asked.

“Actually he did. I believe he got them from a warehouse in the docks, about a mile away. They smelled somewhat, but I think from something the judge once said that his late wife had liked them, so possibly it was a way of remembering and honouring her.”

“Tell me about your father's poisoning”, Cas said.

“It was all very strange”, she said. “This morning I called at his house, and brought some shopping for Mr. Abrahams as usual. Normally I would have unpacked my own shopping first, but as you may know Mr. Abrahams had grown very uneasy of late of anything was out of time or place - I believe he almost refused his cleaning-lady admission one day because she had been delayed - and it was already a little past the time I usually took him his things. I immediately knocked on the connecting door; I should add that we had arranged a signal for his peace of mind of four knocks. He took a short time to admit me, which was not surprising I felt. I then put his items in his cupboards for him, he thanked me and I left. He immediately locked the door behind me; I heard it click.”

“So you usually unpacked your father's items first?” Cas asked. "What did you do next, pray?"

“I came back and made myself a cup of tea, then I cleaned the house a little. I would normally have cooked Father a proper lunch, but we are having a stock-take soon and I promised I would come in early to help, so I left him a cold collation. I was still a little late leaving, which concerned me. Mr. Ratland can be.... somewhat demanding.”

“We noticed!” I muttered. She smiled at me.

“I have to say however that it was Providence in that I was so rushed, because I was barely halfway down the road when I realized that I had left my pills at the house.”

“Your pills?” I asked. “You are on medication?”

“My doctor is treating me for a minor heart irregularity”, she said. “I ran back to the house, and arrived to find my father on the floor, thrashing and calling for help. It was my further good luck that Doctor Bazenger lives the other side of Mr. Abrahams, and that he was home at the time. He treated him whilst I summoned an ambulance. The doctors say he should recover, but only because I reached him when I did, and that he was treated so fast. .”

Cas nodded.

“He had not opened your pills?” he asked. She shook her head.

“I always get the chemist to screw the lid on extra-tight”, she said. “Also, at my own house my neighbour's daughter sometimes comes in if her mother is late home from work, and I do not want to risk her getting hold of them. I only need one a day, and I can use the nutcrackers to open them.”

She looked at Cas thoughtfully.

“This has something to do with Mr. Abrahams' recent fearfulness”, she said astutely. “What is going on?”

“I very much fear the answer is 'attempted murder'”, Cas said grimly. “And that we may be unable to prevent it.”

+~+~+

We were in a cab that was heading the mercifully short distance from Miss Smith's shop to Beaconsfield Mews. I say mercifully, because Cas had instructed the driver to go flat out, and the cab was rocking so violently I was starting to feel nauseous. 

“What did you mean, too late?” I asked, grabbing the strap as I was hurled into Cas round a particularly sharp turn. He, typically, seemed able to ignore the laws of momentum that were bouncing me around the cab like a rubber ball. “Mr. Smith survived.”

“I fully expect a second murder to be attempted before the day is out”, Cas said grimly. “If it has not been already.”

“What?” I gasped. “Oof!”

We had reached our destination, as was evident by the sudden stop that hurled me against the swing-door at the front of the cab. Cas threw a handful of change at the cabbie and shot up the path, leaving me trailing in his wake. He banged on the front door, and I held my breath.....

It was opened by Mr. Abrahams Senior. I relaxed. He looked at us both, and clearly knew who we were.

“Are we too late?” Cas asked, to my surprise. 

V

The old man shook his head.

“You are too early”, he said. “It would be better if you come back later.”

“I am afraid we cannot do that”, Cas said. “Justice must be seen to be done. You of all people should know that, your honour.”

For a moment the stand-off continued, but then the old man sighed and stood back. Cas hurried past him into the hallway, hesitated only briefly, then turned sharply and went through into the front room. I followed.

There was a body on the hearth-rug, a middle-aged alpha gasping for breath. He was clearly dying. I moved past Cas to try to at least do something, only for him to forcibly restrain me.

“If you save that man's life”, he said, “it will be so he can hang.”

I stared at him in confusion.

“What?” I asked. 

“That is Mr. Jeroboam Abrahams, son of the master of this house”, Cas said, glancing at the elderly judge. “He is charged with attempted patricide, or murder of his own father. Only a chance sequence of events exposed his evil intentions, and he has now met the same end he intended for the man who gave him life.”

The prone man's movements were growing weaker. I recognized the same symptoms as had been described in Miss Smith's father.

“Poison?” I asked. 

Cas nodded, and took a seat. The judge stood before him, close to his dying son. I was reminded of a courtroom, except this time the judge was not in control.

“Young Mr. Abrahams knows that a convicted felon, whom his father put away, is due out of jail”, he began in a soft voice. “He presses one more time to try to persuade his father to sell the house, but when he refuses, he puts his plan into action.”

“He is fortunate that, although he has deemed general shopping beneath him, he is still responsible for arranging the rare teas that his father likes. He doses each with a drug designed to cause paranoia, and makes sure his father knows that 'Bruiser' Morris is now a free man. The slow dosage will not kill his father, but it may succeed in driving him to sell up, and if it does not, then he can always add a sharp extra dose one day.”

“Except this very morning, disaster strikes, courtesy of his own laziness”, Cas said. “A kind neighbour's daughter brings in Mr. Abrahams' shopping, and whilst placing items in his cupboards inadvertently takes a package of tea intended for him back into her own father's house. Presumably he must be more susceptible to the poison, but thanks to the blessed Providence, she returns in time to save him. Of course when young Mr. Abrahams learns of this, he realizes that any inquiry may expose his own nefarious acts. He must strike fast, before the day is out.”

“He comes to the house with the fatal dose, determined to get his father to drink it. He offers to make the tea, knowing that the small dose in his own cup will not do him any long-term damage. It is worth the money he is playing for. Everything marches well, he believes.”

“But it is one of the truest tenets of crime”, Cas went on”, that one should never underestimate one's opponent.” He turned to the judge. “You guessed, when you heard of your neighbour's attack, what had happened, and therefore knew for sure that your son was behind it. I do not know what ruse you used, but you distracted your son in some way so you could switch your cups. The result, we see before us.”

Old Mr. Abrahams bowed his head. 

“Judge, jury and executioner”, he said softly. “If only the fool boy had waited. I am surely not long for this world, but Jerry wanted everything now. Well, he will want no more.”

I sat there in shock. Cas rose to his feet.

“Methusaleh Abrahams”, he said heavily, “you are guilty of the willful murder of you own son. However, the fact that you struck in self-defence must be weighed in the balance. Your sentence is to live out your life in that knowledge, and to do what good you can with an estate that now has no-one left to inherit. May God have mercy upon your soul.”

He nodded. Cas helped me to my feet, and we left. The man on the hearth had stopped moving.

+~+~+

The reader will by now understand why this case was not published in my original canon. Apparently the Good Lord was in no hurry for the judge's company, as he lived on for a further four years. When he died, most of his estate went to charity, but there were sizeable bequests to both Miss Smith (whose father had predeceased her) and, much to her surprise, Mrs. Minton.

+~+~+

In our next case, an act of murder from the distant past resurfaces and claims a victim from the present. And there is a historical re-enactment of a massacre....


	6. Case 105: As Time Goes By (1902)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Red Circle'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Suicide of minor character

I

I had not thought that we would have the pleasure of meeting Miss Charlotta Bradbury so soon after her inveigling of us into investigating the 'disappearance' of Lady Frances Carfax, but early one February morning – a little too early, if truth be told – she called at Baker Street. Cas and I were both in our dressing-gowns, and it served her right that he had not yet had his first coffee of the day, and was therefore less than his usual self (or as I more accurately admitted when I was out of throwing range, bloody impossible!). 

“I may need your help, both of you”, she said, sitting down and looking far too alert for such an unseemly hour. “Good heavens, doctor, you look rough!”

“Someone had a restless night”, I muttered, glancing across at Cas, who at least had the decency to blush. He was normally something of an octopus when we slept together, but every so often he would be unable to settle properly, and I would be kept awake whilst he used me as a portable climbing-frame until he finally got comfortable. And unfortunately, my body did not require just the odd cup of coffee to put itself to rights, unlike some lucky bastards with blue eyes and impossible hair that I could mention!

“Too much information, doc!” she grinned. “No, I want to know if you gentlemen would accompany me out to my nice new home in the country for a spot of crime-solving.”

“What sort of crime?” Cas asked, already halfway into his second coffee.

“None”, she said. “Yet.”

We both looked at her in surprise.

“What sort of crime do you expect to happen?” Cas ventured. 

“No idea”, she said. 

“Where might this crime be taking place, then?” I asked, hoping for at least something. I was beginning to think this might be about to set a record for starting a case with so little.

“That I might know”, she said. “Come on, you've looked at things before and just known something was wrong, even before you knew how you knew. That's the feeling I've got over what might be happening next week.”

“Which is?” Cas asked with a yawn. “Sorry.”

“The St. Valentine's Day Massacre!”

+~+~+

It was Monday, February the tenth. Cas, myself and Miss Bradbury (she re-iterated her threat of grievous bodily harm to either of us if we ever called her 'Charlotta') had gone to Marylebone Station to catch a Great Central Railway train on the recently-opened main line to the Midlands and North. Our destination, according to the tickets she had purchased, was the Northamptonshire town of Brackley.

“I had a place in Hertfordshire until the start of last year”, she explained, “but my neighbours there were horrible. And since they'd been there since the dinosaurs, I decided to up sticks and move. Luckily I'd done a favour for an estate agent only a month back, and he recommended this place that a friend told him about. It's a lovely little bungalow, one of only four buildings in the village – and that includes the church!”

“Not exactly a metropolis, then”, I said.

“That's part of the back story”, she said. “We change at Brackley for the train down the Reed Valley to Redhampton, the terminus. It's also the largest town in the valley now; there are three other villages, namely Redwood and North and South Redbridge. I live in Redford, where the two branches of the Reed river meet. It's the history of the place that's behind this, so sorry if I bore you.”

“Go ahead”, Cas smiled.

“Until the seventeenth century, Redford was the largest place in the area, bigger than Brackley at the time”, she said. “Had a castle and everything. But the villagers went and chose the wrong side in the Civil War. Everywhere else in the valley they were for King Charles, but Redford was for Parliament.”

“The valley is not that far from Edgehill, the first major battle of the war”, she went on. “Both sides sent men to the battle, although the Parliamentarian force from the other villages was larger. I know the history books say the battle was a draw, but the Parliamentarians fell back on London, and the Royalists chased them. Anyway, the Royalists came down the valley, and so the story goes, the soldiers who had got to the castle fired at them as they came up. The King didn't want to waste time when he was advancing on London and a chance to wrap things up, so he ignored the place. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief – but Mr. Nehemiah Porter, who was the chief landowner in Redhampton, had a long-running feud with the Dowdeswell family who owned Redford. In the middle of winter – St. Valentine's Day – he raised a troop of soldiers and attacked and burnt the place. That was virtually the end of Redford; now it's just a hamlet. The castle was.... blighted?”

“Slighted”, I corrected. “A polite fiction for all but destroyed.”

“Go on”, Cas urged.

“I moved in last March, and I learned that I'd just missed out on an annual event”, she said. “Every year, a group of people from the other villages dress up and re-enact the event. I have to say the idea of a female soldier taking part in this year's event raised more than a few eyebrows, though once I'd promised to pay for several barrels of beer in Redhampton afterwards, no-one seemed to mind that much.”

“Surely a complete coincidence!” I chuckled. Her face grew serious.

“The thing is, the event is this Friday”, she said. “Locally, they call it the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, which is... charming! But as we've got nearer, I've had a bad sort of feeling, as if something was going to happen. I deal with information, not people directly, so this is not my speciality.”

“But it is ours”, Cas said. “It sounds most interesting.”

“The group doing the re-enactment is called the Red Circle”, she said, “from the fact that the two branches of the river curve almost back on each other. I don't know what it is that's making me nervous, but something just feels off.”

I could not know then just how right she was in that feeling.

II

We dully changed at Brackley and alighted from the branch-line train at a small station called Carlington and Blackstock, taking a carriage from there. The most surprising thing about Redford, when we reached it after a couple of miles, was that the main road up from Brackley ran right through it. The branch-line ran parallel to it, though of course there was no station for so small a place. It was as tiny as our host had described; one single cottage opposite a small church with what must be a tiny vicarage attached to to it, a farm track leading to a distant farm, a low, flattened hill which had presumably once supported the castle, and finally Miss Bradbury's house, which I thought surprisingly small. She must have caught my expression.

“I didn't want to be rattling around inside some huge barn of a place”, she said. “I wanted somewhere small but well apart, and with good connections to my business in London. Brackley Station is under half an hour from here, fifteen minutes with my riding. Though I may have been sold a pup.”

“Your estate agent lied to you?” I asked.

“Not unless he was psychic”, she said. “The county council met a few months back to draw up a short-list of sites for a new barracks the government wants built somewhere in the Home Counties. Because of the railway, Redford is one of the places on that list, one of four. I may have to move again.”

“Four to one is not bad odds”, Cas said. 

“True”, she admitted, “and the fact that they might have to build over part of a battlefield is also a bit of a deterrent. They did some preliminary digging in the area just before they announced the decision, and they found a dead body almost at once. Fortunately a battle victim; he'd been dead for centuries.”

“So this place was destroyed by the Royalists”, I said, as we pulled to a halt outside Miss Bradbury's house. “And the people driven out, presumably.”

“Old Nehemiah Porter claimed that they were interfering in his getting supplies through to the king's capital at Oxford”, she said, “which was bunkum as he could easily have sent them another way. The records say that he singled out those he could ransom, and told the rest they could burn in their homes or leave. Though I have my doubts, as his only Dowdeswell captive just happened to be shot dead whilst trying to escape. Funnily enough, they're still here, at least in the form of the parish priest, the Reverend Nigel. They want to close down his church here, but he's fighting for it.”

“Are the Porters still in the area?” Cas asked.

“Unfortunately, yes”, she said with a grimace. “Though like the Dowdeswells, maybe not for much longer. Mr. Janus Streatham-Porter is the last of the line, though he's still young enough to marry and continue it. If anyone would have him, that is. You'll probably find his picture in the dictionary under I, for 'insufferable pompous oaf'!”

+~+~+

The following day, Cas and I went to the re-enactment meeting held in Redhampton. The plan was that everyone would wear period costume as soldiers of the time – the women were supposed to dress as camp followers, but thanks to the barrels of ale, Miss Bradbury was wearing a full soldier costume which I found somewhat disconcerting – and start out at Brackley. They would then follow the route of the king's army to Redford, surround the village as the soldiers had done in sixteen hundred and forty-two, hold a minute's silence and then attend a remembrance service in the churchyard before continuing to Redhampton. And the beer.

Miss Bradbury also introduced us to some of the local people she had told us about. The Reverend Nigel Dowdeswell was a small tired-looking beta, constantly wringing his hands and looking nervous at having to preach to a congregation several dozen times larger than his usual one. I would not like to call him absent-minded, but I saw him spend five minutes looking for his glasses before someone managed to stop him worrying long enough to tell him their were hanging out of his pocket.

We also met Mr. Janus Streatham-Porter, and I can only comment that if anything, our hostess underplayed his true awfulness. It was customary at the time for some alphas, especially those who had just come of age, to wear an alpha ring, but this man, who was the wrong side of thirty if he was a day, had two large bracelets, each adorned with a huge alpha symbol. Miss Bradbury, bless her, rescued us after what seemed like an eternity by claiming that there was a telegram for Cas, and she needed me to help her with her costume. Never has silence sounded so wonderful!

The other person we met was also quite distinctive. Miss Eunice Pelham worked at a lady's clothes shop in Towcester, but was passionate about local history, and insisted on relating the whole destruction story to us despite our attempts to tell her we already knew it. I admire passion for a subject, but she was a little too keen. Miss Bradbury explained later that the lady was in fact a cousin of the Reverend Nigel, her great-grandfather being the latter's grandfather. I wished silently that I had brought ear-plugs for this particular adventure!

The day was notable for an incident that arose out of another guest, to whom we were not at that time introduced. Refreshments had been laid on for the club members, and I had loaded up my plate when I noticed Mr. Streatham-Porter talking to a tall patrician of an alpha by the doorway. I walked over to Miss Bradbury.

“Who is that?” I asked.

She looked across, and bit her lip.

“That”, she said, “is trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asked. “He had somehow managed to find a cup of coffee, which was strange as I was sure I had been told only tea was available. Then again, with his charm anything was possible.

Miss Bradbury looked around, and sighed in relief.

“He must have gone”, she said. 

“Who?” I asked, mystified. 

“Reverend Nigel”, she said. “The insufferable pompous oaf is talking to the Bishop of Lamport and Brixworth, whose diocese this is. The oaf wants an extension to the church in Redhampton, and is pressing the Church to close St. Ætheldreda's in Redford to save money. Knowing him, he's prepared to offer a generous donation if they do as he asks.”

I looked across at the two men, and noticed that Miss Pelham was seated not far away from them. The look on her face was frankly alarming.

“Medusa”, I muttered. 

“Family feuds persist in rural areas”, Miss Bradbury remarked. “We had two families in Hertfordshire who had been feuding over a bit of land since King John, and seven centuries on they were still at it. Time isn't so much a great healer in rural areas as a chance for things to fester. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect here to be any different.”

I was silently glad that Miss Pelham would not be in possession of a weapon for the re-enactment. I for one would not have trusted her.

III

The day of the re-enactment dawned cold and chilly, but Miss Bradbury was uncommonly cheerful.

“My seaweed out the back is as dry as a bone!” she said firmly. Sunny weather today, Mr. Smith and Dr. Wesson.”

She had not thought it advisable for us to be introduced as ourselves to the locals, in case whoever was planning whatever they were planning decided to stop planning it as a result. I think that was what she said, but I had long ago figured that her train of thought was prone not just to running into sidings, but turning onto switchbacks, passing loops and Heaven alone knows what else. At least she was not expecting us to dress up; I had still not forgotten the truly dreadful experience of the Reigate case. And Cas still had the photograph, damn him!

Cas and I rode to Brackley in Miss Bradbury's carriage, whilst she rode on her other horse in full costume. She looked every inch the Cavalier, and the well-designed outfit meant one would have to get very near to realize this particular soldier was more than they first appeared. When we reached Brackley, there was the usual milieu of disorganization before everyone finally got to their allotted places, and we headed along the road to Redford and Towcester. A sharply-dressed alpha who was wearing blue rather than the more common red spoke briefly with our hostess, and after he had left we asked her who he was.

“That's Bernie, my estate agent friend” she said. “He's heard unofficially that they're looking more at a site in Buckinghamshire for the new camp, rather than Redford. Probably disappointing for him, as a development here would make him oodles of cash!”

I looked along the line of soldiers to where Mr. Streatham-Porter was shouting at a man who, presumably, was meant to be his squire. Somehow it did not surprise me in the least that he had ended up as King Charles.

“That's poor Humphrey – Mr. Benfleet – his cousin”, she said. “You'd think he'd be a bit nicer to the man who's only a heartbeat away from the estate, but Hump being an omega means he looks down on him. Yet the estate will be his one day, unless the insufferable pompous oaf can find a passing female or omega with poor vision and/or no taste!”

I chuckled.

“Talking of the fairer sexes”, she went on, “my researchers down in London found something interesting on Miss Pelham yesterday.”

“What?” Cas asked.

“Apparently she went to the British Museum on Wednesday and asked for the names of some people who could authenticate an ancient document for her”, she said. “And I know that she has been writing up a history of the churches in the Red Valley. She may have found something in the old records.”

“I cannot think it could make her dislike Mr. Streatham-Porter any more”, I observed. “Though I am certain that she would try!”

+~+~+

It was about three miles to Redford, and it took some considerable time for both the journey and to assemble everyone in a loose ring around the remains of the village when we finally got there. After a minute's silence for the dead, as many people as could crammed into the churchyard, where a temporary pulpit had been arranged, and the benches set out before it. They had even screened off the traditional family pew at the front.

“I don't believe it!” Miss Bradbury hissed. 

“What?” I whispered back.

She gestured to the front.

“Insufferable Pompous Oaf is sitting himself in the Dowdeswell family pew!” she hissed back. “Talk about striking a match in a gunpowder factory! If Reverend Nigel is ever going to call down holy fire, it's now!”

To her and our surprise however, the little priest did not seem overly perturbed at this discourtesy. Though I could not but notice that his theme for the sermon was Revelation chapter six, verse ten - 'And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?' I shuddered. I could almost imagine the village going up in flames, destroyed by the neighbouring landowner under the pretence of wartime necessity.

I suppose I should not have been surprised that, once the sermon was over, Mr. Streatham-Porter immediately uncorked his wine-bottle and quaffed a mouthful before even leaving his pew. True, we were not actually inside the church, but it was brazenly disrespectful. That did not surprise me.

Mr. Streatham-Porter subsequently clutching his throat and falling to the floor in agony. I have to admit; that did surprise me.

+~+~+

I rushed over to the man, pushing my way through whilst yelling that I was a doctor. At one point I bounced off someone, and looking up, I saw it was Miss Pelham, but I was more concerned with reaching my patient. She followed me through to the front, and I quickly loosened the man's clothing.

“He has been poisoned!” I said. “Where is the bottle he was drinking from?”

Someone pointed to where the bottle lay on the ground, its contents having largely emptied out when it was dropped. Cas came up and carefully lifted it up in a handkerchief. It was swiftly clear that there was nothing I could do for Mr. Streatham-Porter, who was not long for this world. I quickly examined him, and noticed there was a strange smell about his body. I turned to Mr. Benfleet.

“Did Mr. Streatham-Porter wear anything like a cologne today?” I asked. “Or perhaps drink something herbal?”

“He hates all male fragrances”, Mr. Benfleet said firmly. “And he never drinks herbal tea or anything like that.”

The man slumped in my arms, and I laid him gently on the ground. Regardless of how unpleasant he had been in life, a patient of mine had died. I would not let that rest.

“We need to carry him to where he can be examined”, I said. “A cool room would be better. Reverend, could we have him taken into the church?”

I fully expected the priest to say no to the presence of such an ungodly man in his house, but to my surprise he nodded. I turned to Miss Bradbury.

“”Perhaps you should continue with the procession”, I said. “We cannot leave everyone standing around in a field all day.”

“I'm staying here”, she said firmly. “I want to know what happened to him.”

+~+~+

My examination of the late Mr. Janus Streatham-Porter yielded little except that he had most definitely been poisoned. Cas had stayed with me during the examination, and when I told him my suspicions, he agreed, though I sensed he knew more than he was saying. A basic but reliable test of the water-bottle showed that the contents had been heavily dosed with aconitum (or monkshood), in a dosage large enough to kill. Which was a problem, because, when the police started questioning people, it emerged that Mr. Streatham-Porter had, in front of witnesses at Redford, shared the contents of the very same bottle with his friend Mr. Beagle, the local lawyer, before taking his seat. And the lawyer, most tiresomely, was not even ill. Drat!

Cas, of course, had an idea. 

“I am thinking a trap”, he said. “Unfortunately it may involve a long wait, though I rather hope not, if it catches the person I expect.”

“Count me in!” Miss Bradbury said, clearly excited. “Where?”

“In the local church”, Cas said. “I think someone will visit Mr. Streatham-Porter tonight, and attempt to remove a critical piece of evidence. That is why I persuaded the local police to leave the body until tomorrow, since it has already been examined by a fully competent doctor.”

The two of us agreed, and we followed him over to the small church. It had of course been locked by the reverend, but a locked door never stopped Cas, and we were inside in under a minute. The body of Mr. Streatham-Porter lay undisturbed on the bench at the back, the other benches having been returned to their normal positions. Cas went up to it and sighed unhappily.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I was hoping that I was wrong”, he said. “Come. We have no business here.”

IV

Now totally puzzled, we followed him out and around to the vicarage, which lay just behind the church. He knocked at the door, and the three of us were admitted. Reverend Nigel welcomed us into his study.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked politely.

“By admitting your guilt in the murder of the man currently lying dead in your church”, Cas said calmly.

There was a stunned silence all round.

“I am not sure that I understand”, the priest said. 

Cas sighed. 

“I think it only fair to tell you, reverend”, he said quietly, “that after the doctor's examination of the body, I took the precaution of removing the man's collar and sending it to London for official testing. I am sure that the results will show high levels of aconitum on the insides. Only one person had access to the church after we left it there. That person was you, and you entered looking for it. Suspecting you, it was easy to lay a dust trap between the body and the connecting door to the vicarage.”

The priest seemed to slump.

“Why?” Cas asked.

“Because I had to.”

“What?” I asked. He looked fully at me, and the look in his eyes was such that I involuntarily took a step backwards. This was a man being haunted by the very hounds of Hell.

“Ever since that rat started trying to get my church closed down, I kept getting these strange dreams”, he muttered. “I thought I was just having nightmares and the doctor proscribed some powders, but they kept happening, even more after the surveyors found that dead body. Dozens of people dying in a fire, whilst those around just laughed. So Miss Pelham and I started going through the church records, to see if anything had happened that could explain it.”

He looked up at us, his face a deathly white.

“We found something, all right”, he said. “A sealed confession from one of Colonel Porter's men as to what really happened that day. The man got some battle disease later in the war, and he returned to the priest here and made his final confession. The official version of what happened that day was rot! They didn't throw the people out of their homes and then burn them; they set a ring of fire around the place and burned them alive, and shot those who tried to escape. Nehemiah Porter saw a chance to destroy a rival landowner and a rival town, and he grasped it with both hands.”

“How did you do it?” Cas asked quietly.

“I was in charge of costumes, remember?” he said with a hollow laugh. “I knew he planned to change when he got to Brackley, so I coated his collar with poison.”

I suddenly remembered. He had brought in soap and water for me to wash my hands before the examination had started. I could have been the next victim!

“But the bottle”, I objected. “It contained traces of poison. I tested it!”

“In the confusion of a man dying in a churchyard, it was easy to swap the original for one with monkshood in it”, he said. “I did not know he had shared it with his friend earlier. I thought his cousin might be suspected.”

“That was cruel”, Cas said sharply. 

“When you have not slept for two months, you stop caring”, the man said dully. He reached across and poured himself a glass of wine. “Either way, now I shall have peace.”

He downed his glass, stood up and smiled strangely. Only for a moment though, because he slumped to the floor. I made to move towards him, but Cas shook his head.

“He wanted peace”, he said. “He has found it. May the souls of those done to death here all those years ago also find their rest.”

+~+~+

We returned to Miss Bradbury's house for the night, as the local constabulary wanted us to remain until everything was cleared up. I felt my emotions very mixed; the vicar was a killer, yet he had been effectively driven to it by the ghosts of victims past (I had checked with his local doctor, and he had indeed not been sleeping lately). I wondered how I might cope if denied the blessed relief of eight hours in the arms of Morpheus.

And, of course, eight hours in the arms of Cas.

V

The next day, Miss Bradbury thanked us, and drove us to Brackley for the train back to London. We boarded a first-class compartment and both sat back.

“Which side would you have chosen, Dean?”

I looked up in surprise at the question.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“King or Parliament?” he asked, looking at me quizzically. “If you had lived two and a half centuries ago, and been forced to take sides?”

“King”, I said firmly. “The established order. Charles was not the best of men, but that is the lottery with putting someone in charge. Sometimes you get an Elizabeth, other times you get a Mary the First.”

“I think I would have been for Parliament”, he said. “The rights of the common man, against the tyrannical monarch.”

I looked at him pointedly.

“And if you had been my mate then?” I asked. “Would you have gone against me and still supported Cromwell?”

“Of course”, he smiled. “But I suppose you would have tried to persuade me otherwise.”

I grinned evilly, stood up in the carriage and pulled down the blinds.

“I think I can be very persuasive”, I said, taking off my jacket and unbuttoning my shirt. “And a demonstration is in order. Right now!”

“I would be very committed to Parliament”, Cas grinned, undressing himself farm more quickly than me, as usual. He was sitting there wearing only his socks before I was finished, his cock vertical and almost daunting. “Are you going to 'ride' over here and try to convert me?”

I finally got my trousers off, and positioned myself above him. Those leather hand-grips from above the seat-rests were almost certainly never intended to be used for this, but I was able to use them to support my weight whilst he worked me open, using some unguent which, interestingly, he just happened to have had on his person. Though by the time he had three fingers in me, I was past concern, and pretty much past anything. Using that inhuman strength of his, he eased me gently down onto him, and I groaned as the juddering of the train caused him to push around inside of me. 

“Let us see who is right, king or parliament”, he growled. “Whoever comes first loses, obviously.”

And with that the bastard began to attack my prostate as if he was trying to beat it into submission. I could only hold on for the ride – ride, hah! - as I was controlled by my mate and reduced to a quivering wreck, until finally I came with a moan of pleasure that must have been heard by the neighbouring compartments, Thank Heavens for a non-corridor train! I reached down to encourage him to follow, then frowned.

“You cheat!” I whispered. “You've been wearing a cock-ring!”

“All's fair in love and war”, he grinned back, and twisted his hips, causing me to start growing hard again. I would have complained further, but if this was what losing an argument felt like, I supposed I could take it like a man.

+~+~+

I did take it like a man. Twice more before we got to London.

+~+~+

Postscript: In one of those twists of Fate, the local bishop did decide to close down the church at Redford, only for the government to change its mind and select the village as the site for its new camp. St. Ætheldreda's became the new garrison church for Redford Camp, and Miss Bradbury found that the peace she had sought was short-lived, so had to move again – but that's another story.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would prove that trying to live two lives is never advisable – and again, that justice may be delayed, but it is rarely denied.....


	7. Case 106: No Rest For The Wicked (1902)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the St. Pancras Case'.

I

In my time with Cas we encountered many criminals, and many killers, people who ended someone else's life for a whole variety of reasons. But few chilled me more than in this case, over the mysterious death of Mr. Albert Warley of number forty-one, Lupin Terrace, St. Pancras. And there was not a thing we could do to bring his killers to justice!

As it was, justice eventually came to them. A cold, looming justice, out of a dark April night.

+~+~+

“Dean”, Cas said across the breakfast table one morning, “you really must stop writing those cases where people send me letters appealing to my curiosity. If I have one more letter like this, I will have to change my address!”

I smiled at his feigned indignation.

“What is it this time?” I asked.

“A Mr. Quentin Bywater of the Middlesex and Surrey Insurance Corporation wishes to avail himself of our services due, and I quote, 'to an irregular occurrence of coincidences'. Honestly!”

“And that is all he says?” I asked. 

“That is his idea of a description”, Cas said. “He asks if it is possible for us to call on him at his company offices in Euston any time this morning.”

“Why not?” I said languidly. I was feeling well-disposed to the world in general, mainly because the Times had seen fit to write a short article praising my latest set of works about my friend. And this time they had refrained from decrying my role in matters, though I suspected that was at least partly due to Cas' reaction the last time they had done that. He had been furious!

I took the telegram and read it.

“His offices are over in Albany Street”, I said. “That is just the other side of Regent's Park. And we often walk there, so it would not be that much further.”

He snorted in disdain.

“If this turns out to be a simple case of insurance fraud, I shall not be pleased!” he said firmly, sipping his coffee.

Reader, it was not.

+~+~+

Mr. Quentin Bywater was, I quickly reckoned, one of those young alphas who had been given too much responsibility too soon. I soon formed an opinion that it was he who considered that he was doing us a favour, not the other way round. I remained silent, though. It was always quietly amusing to watch potential clients shoot themselves in the foot.

“I have to say that the matters in this case are most confidential, gentlemen, most confidential”, he babbled. “Indeed, were it not for a most opportune meeting with my dear brother yesterday, I would not be in this situation. It concerns a certain client of ours – I will call him Mr. Smith – who....”

Cas stood up.

“I am afraid that you have misread the doctor's books, sir”, he said firmly. “I require absolute honesty and complete disclosure of all facts from all potential clients, without exception. Discretion is guaranteed, naturally, but I really cannot be having with aliases at this stage of things. If that is a problem, then it is best that we terminate this meeting as of now.”

Mr. Bywater was doing a remarkably accurate impression of a goldfish, clearly stunned that Cas was for some strange reason not at his beck and call. He shuddered delicately, but opened a desk drawer and drew out two files, opening the top one.

“I should explain that my brother Oliver and I are twins, and started careers in insurance at the same time, albeit with different companies”, he said. “His firm, the Central and West London, is based near Euston Station, so we often meet for lunch and, of course, discuss cases. Not by name, for obvious reasons.”

“Of course”, Cas said, sitting down again. “Pray continue.”

“At the start of the year, my firm welcomed a new client”, he said. “A Mrs. Albert Warley of St. Pancras wished to insure her husband's life; he works as a casual ship-hand, going wherever there is work. She came in on January the second, and paid her first premium immediately, which in itself was unusual; we tend as a rule to encourage clients to go away and think on matters first. Last month, not long after her third premium, her husband was on board the 'Calypso' to Gibraltar, which sank off Cape Trafalgar with the loss of around half its crew. Of course she immediately put in a claim, which we are considering.

“It seems cut and dried to me”, I offered. “What is the problem?”

He fixed me with a look.

“The problem, doctor”, he said, “is my brother. I mentioned the case to him – no names, of course – and he said he had almost exactly the same thing happen to his company. A Mrs. Albert Warley - I admit her name was Margaret, not Mary - of King's Cross insured her husband's life on the very same day, by name of Albert, and he too was on the Calypso. I do not like it. Something smells wrong.”

A cruel or malicious person would have taken that opportunity to remark on his absurdly excessive use of cologne, to the extent that I was quietly glad there was no open flame in the vicinity. I bit my lip, but it was close. Cas, a mind-reader as ever, glared warningly at me.

“You have done your own investigations, of course”, he said. “What have you found out so far?”

“First, the two cases are indeed separate”, he said. “The Mrs. Warley in St. Pancras and the Mrs. Warley in King's Cross are two different ladies, one presumes – hopes – with two separate if identically-named husbands. Unfortunately establishing whether said husbands were on board the ship when it sank is very difficult. Ships are meant to keep accurate logs of whomsoever they employ, but the last-minute use of casual labour is regrettably common. I have only been able to establish that their husbands were were registered as available for work that day – though that does not mean they were at the docks; they can register a day in advance – and that they were not available any time thereafter. I cannot definitely say that that the two men were not on that ship, and my superior, Mr. Featherley, is pressing me to conclude the case. It is most vexing.”

I looked at Cas, wondering if he was going to take the case or not. With Mr. Bywater's attitude doing him no favours, it seemed unlikely, but again he surprised me. 

“I will look into this for you”, he said. “You are aware, of course, that my fees are non-negotiable, and I expect all expenses to be covered?”

The insurance agent looked uncomfortable at the idea of parting with actual money, but nodded. 

“Excellent”, Cas smiled, collecting up the papers on the table. “We shall take these and examine them, and decide then upon our next course of action.”

+~+~+

Our next course of action, the following day, was a cab-ride to King's Cross. I expected Cas to interview one of the two ladies, but instead we went to the station and boarded a Great Northern Railway express.

“I wish to understand these two men better”, Cas explained, once we were safely in our first-class carriage. “I could of course ask at the docks, but on checking the shipping lists I saw that the St. Pancras Mr. Warley's last ship, the 'Dodecanesia', is currently in Hull, ready to sail across to Norway. I am hoping Captain Ivan Lessing will be able to throw some light on the man he employed.”

The journey passed uneventfully, and after a hurried change at Doncaster we were soon pulling into the North Eastern Railway station in the port. A short cab-ride took us to the Dodecanesia, which from its bedraggled appearance had clearly seen better days. We went on board, and a sailor showed us to the captain's quarters. 

I have to say that I was surprised. I had always thought sailors a licentious bunch, but the room we were in could have been that of a parish priest anywhere in the British Isles, the portholes apart. Captain Lessing was, despite his Christian name, as English as we were, a tall bearded man who seemed to have a permanent look of severity on his face. Then again, in his post, I should probably have looked the same. 

“Yes, I remember Warley”, he said, a tone of disapproval entering his voice. “One of those who would have had a girl in every port if he could have got away with it. I do remember being surprised when I learnt that he was married. It somewhat lowered my opinion of the fairer sex, I must say.”

“Are you aware that his ship went down last month?” Cas asked.

He looked surprised. “No”, he said. “Which ship?”

“The Calypso, off Cape Trafalgar”, Cas said. 

The captain sighed.

“I feared he was tempting the Fates”, he said wryly. “He was saying that wife of his – Peg, I think he called her – was saving every penny she could in case the worst happened. He was annoyed at not getting enough beer money, which was typical of the man. I also remember him saying she was more likely to wear herself out cleaning that he was to go down at sea. And now he has.”

Cas seemed surprised at that for some reason, but did not push whatever he was thinking. We said our goodbyes and disembarked, returning to the station. Once we were on the train, he spent some time looking through the files, saying nothing.

II

“You know something”, I said. 

“I cannot be certain”, he said. However, the lives of these two men puzzle me.”

“What about them?” I asked.

“The St. Pancras Mr. Warley, to start with”, he said. “He went on three major voyages before his fatal one, all last year. In March and April he was sailing to various Irish ports, in July he went across to the Netherlands and Germany, and in October he was with the Dodecanesia to Spain and back. This January his wife Mary takes out an insurance policy on him, and he dies two months later. She is now a relatively rich woman, or will be once the claim goes through.”

“You think it will go through?” I asked.

“I cannot see how the company can turn it down”, he said. “Unless they reason that she might not want to risk spending money on a lawyer and then losing, but the courts tend not to favour insurance companies these days. Then there is the King's Cross Mr. Warley. He spends most of the winter employed on a whaler in Norway, sails to Greece and back in May and June, and come autumn he is employed on a schooner out of Great Yarmouth. The same day one Mrs. Warley insures her husband's life, the other Mrs. Warley does the same – and they both become rich widows courtesy of the same wreck.”

“I suppose that the same sort of people employ casual seamen each time”, I said. “They would likely be employed – or not – at similar times. Though it is certainly odd that two men who died on the same ship had the same name.”

He shook his head.

“I have an idea”, he said. “I think that tomorrow, we will go to St. Pancras.”

“We are almost going there now”, I pointed out. “Why not call in on the way back?”

“Because tomorrow is Sunday”, he said, “and we will be more likely to catch the person I wish to interview.”

+~+~+

I assumed, not unnaturally, that when we arrived in the St. Pancras area just after lunch the following day, we were to meet that area's Mrs. Warley. We did indeed drive to Lupin Terrace, but rather than go to number forty-one, Cas led me into the local shop where he purchased a newspaper and made idle talk with the shop-assistant. I was surprised, but I reckoned that he would have his reasons. 

Of course he had.

“We need to go to number eight”, he said. “According to the girl behind the counter, 'that old bag Mrs. Knowsley is the nosiest cat in the neighbourhood'.”

I smiled at his impression, and we walked the short distance down the street to the house in question.

+~+~+

Mrs. Desdemona Knowsley was short, wore pince-nez, and squinted uncertainly at us even after Cas presented his card. I supposed that I should have been glad that she was not simpering at my mate. Yet.

“You are clearly a lady of intelligence”, Cas began, “so I will not beat around the bush. I am investigating an insurance claim by one of your neighbours, a Mrs. Warley. I am afraid” - he sighed theatrically - “that the insurance company is being difficult, and endeavouring to find reasons not to pay out. I need to find out anything about Mrs. Warley that will help expedite the claim, one way or the other.”

She softened a little.

“Are you working for them?” she asked dubiously.

“I always work for justice”, he said. “If the claim is just, I will move heaven and earth to make sure they meet it. If it is unjust, I will move heaven and earth to oppose it. As your house is so well-positioned, I wondered if you had seen anything odd of late?”

I had often remarked that Cas could charm almost any member of the opposite sex. This one, I thought, would be a harder nut to crack – but then I saw her visibly relaxing. 

“If I tell you what I know, it will be in confidence?” she asked.

“As a Father confessor”, he said. She nodded.

“All right”, she said. “I can tell you two things. First, she had a male visitor the day before her husband came back. A sailor, from the way he walked; they all roll a bit. He only stayed about an hour, then he left. I didn't see him again.”

“May I ask how he was dressed?” Cas asked. She looked surprised at the question.

“That's why I noticed him”, she said. “Far smarter than any tar I've ever seen. And he didn't want to be seen; he went down to the end of the road and out through the park, rather than back this way. If I hadn't have happened to be cleaning the front step at the time, I'd have missed him.”

'Cleaning the front step', I thought. I wondered how many times she had had to clean it before the sailor had passed into view again.

“The other thing was something and nothing”, she said, “but my daughter reads those books of yours, doctor, so I know it's sometimes the trivial things that count. They had this thing at the docks that anyone wanting to be hired had to be in a certain area at a certain time, so Mr. Warley always left his house at the same time each day he was home. Regular as clockwork. Except that last day, he didn't.”

“Could he have done as the visitor did, and gone the other way?” Cas asked. She shook her head.

“He always came up the road”, she said. “Man of habit. And he was always one to leave things to the last minute; I doubt he would have had the time.”

“Odd”, I said. 

“Well, thank you for sparing the time to see us”. Cas said. “I do not suppose you happen to know if Mrs. Warley is at home today?”

She looked across at the mantle-piece clock.

“She does a big clean-through for a gentleman in Warren Street Sunday afternoons, so no.” She hesitated before continuing. “Of course an old lady like me does not know what goes on behind closed doors, gentlemen, but I am inclined to offer you some advice. Houses like the ones round here are mean and cramped, but everyone is proud of their gardens.”

I looked at her, expecting more, but apparently that was it. Cas looked equally surprised, but bowed to her. 

“I shall bear that in mind”, he promised.

I turned to lead the way out, but definitely caught a simper there, damn it!

III

We returned to the head of the street, and I fully expected Cas to hire a cab. Instead he went round to the narrow alley that ran along the back of the terraced houses, which was deserted this Sunday morning. 

“What are we looking for?” I asked.

“Mrs. Warley's house”, he said. “Mrs. Knowsley knows rather more than she had told us, though she was gracious enough to provide us with a clue. Since Mrs. Warley is absent, I would like to take the chance to examine her garden.”

Only some of the back gates were marked with numbers, but fortunately enough of them to work out by deduction as to which was number forty-one. Cas slipped in quietly, and I followed him. We found ourselves in a small back garden, with a shed that took up nearly a quarter of it. There was a well-kept flower-bed along one side, a path next to it, and a small lawn between the shed and the house that looked surprisingly well cared-for, with a small round flower-bed in its centre.

“I think we have seen enough here”, Cas said, much to my surprise.”Come.”

I was surprised, but then I supposed there was little else to see, although I had expected him to try to enter the shed. We left via the back gate, and returned to the street to catch a cab home.

+~+~+

“The case is closed.”

I looked at Cas in surprise. It was late the following morning in Baker Street, and he looked more than a little disgruntled. I stood up and went over to him, massaging his shoulders and causing him to let out a deep sigh.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“I telegraphed to Mr. Bywater at the insurance company yesterday”, he said. “In light of my low opinion of him as a human being, I stated what my expenses in the case had been and that I was ready to inform him of my findings. He sent a cheque round this morning.”

I continued massaging him. “And?” I prompted.

“He has deducted a sum of money because, and I quote, 'we expected all travel expenses to be second-class at most'. And he wants to come here this afternoon to learn the outcome of the case.”

“Which is?” I asked.

We were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Cas smiled, and rolled his shoulders.

“That will be our guest”, he said. “Would you show them in and make them comfortable, Dean?”

I gave his shoulders one last squeeze and walked over to the door to meet our guest. Moments later, Mrs. Lindberg entered with..... Mrs. Desdemona Knowsley?

“I received your invitation, sir”, she said to Cas, taking her seat. “I believe you said you were working for an insurance company in Mrs. Warley's case?”

He smiled.

“I believe I rather said that I was working for justice”, he said. “And the subsequent actions of that company, coupled with what I believe to have happened, have caused me to reach a decision. I thought it only courteous to invite you here to share it.”

“Thank you”, she said.

“I will later be informing the insurance company that the coincidence of two identically-named sailors having their lives insured for vast sums by their wives on the same day, and then both dying in the same shipwreck, is indeed just that”, he said. “Coincidences do happen, I am told.”

“Indeed they do”, she said. She looked at him almost playfully. “Are you sure this is one of them?”

He sat back, and pressed his fingers together. 

“I had a case quite recently”, he said. “A sailor, being what sailors are, had contrived to marry two women who lived not that far apart. He had no children with either of them, which I suppose was a blessed relief, but is it not truly said somewhere that no matter how hard one tries to hide it, the truth will out?”

“It is so said”, she agreed.

“One of his wives, the one living in St. Pancras, started to become suspicious”, he said. “The amount of time he spent at sea and the money he handed over to her seemed not to tally. She decided to put all her efforts into saving what she could, and planned to build up a fund 'just in case'. It then chanced to be this sailor's bad luck to be picked for a voyage on a ship whose captain exercised a strict moral code. And the problem with living two lives is that, occasionally, one slips up. Although masquerading as the man who lived with a woman in St. Pancras, the wife's name he used one day was that of the wife in King's Cross. The captain made some inquiries, and discovered the truth.”

“He was, as I said, a highly moral man. He decided that the wife in St. Pancras should be informed of her husband's – permit me the indulgence; we do not know which marriage is legal, or even if he has more wives elsewhere, perish the thought! - infidelity. She, not unnaturally furious, plotted her revenge. She managed to find the address of her 'rival' in King's Cross, and they decided to deal with their errant husband once and for all.”

“I do not know the details, but I suspect that poison, often derisively and unfairly labelled 'a woman' weapon', was the agent chosen. Both women insured their husband's life for large sums of money, They then purchased a small lawn for the back garden of one of their houses, but it was what was to be laid under that lawn that was significant. One faithless, philandering husband. Next, they waited for a ship to sink that docked where their husband queued for work, and when one did, they both claimed that he was on it. It was their bad luck that, although they had insured the faithless man at separate insurance companies, two brothers worked at the two companies and happened to discuss the case, and one called me in.”

“That was bad luck”, she said. “Tell me, in this totally unrelated case which I know precisely nothing whatsoever about, what happened to the two ladies?”

Cas hesitated.

“I rather think they got away with it”, he said. “In the balance of murder against betrayal, one must weigh things very carefully. Though I am sure that the ladies might be advised, most probably through an acquaintance of theirs, to be very, very careful in the future. The trouble with starting on a life of crime is that it is the perennial slippery slope. As Shakespeare's Macbeth found out, the first crime is morally tortuous, but subsequent ones become ever easier.”

“One can only hope one of them has a good enough friend to do just that”, she said, rising to her feet. “Thank you, gentlemen. It has been a most informative visit.”

She smiled, and left. 

IV

I stared at Cas in surprise.

“You are letting these women get away with murder?” I asked.

“For three reasons”, he said. “First, no jury in the land would convict them once the whole sorry truth came out, let alone the fact that such a thing would benefit that young ass of an insurance agent. Indeed, I fully suspect that even if they were found guilty of a lesser crime, a judge would let them walk free. Second, there is the not inconsiderable hurdle that it could never be proven as to which of them poisoned him. And thirdly....”

He hesitated and looked at me.

“I will tell you the third reason later”, he said. 

I pouted.

“And no matter how cute you look when you pout, it will not sway me”, he said teasingly.

I scowled, and rang for luncheon.

+~+~+

“So?” I asked once we had eaten and were relaxing on the couch together.

He smiled at me.

“How would you react if you thought I was secretly married to someone else?”

I gave him such a look.

“The drop would be worth it!” I snapped. He stepped back at my reaction, but then smiled.

“Exactly”, he said. “Hell hath no fury like a woman – or a mate - scorned. And the philandering Mr. Albert Warley had to go and find that out the hard way!”

He returned to his book, and I mused on his words for a moment. My innate insecurities often left me wondering what Cas saw in me sometimes, or why he stayed with me when he could have done so much better. My thoughts were only interrupted when he suddenly stood up.

“Come!” he said tersely.

I followed him in surprise as he all but dragged me to the bedroom. He bade me stand at the end of the bed, and slipped round behind me, ordering me not to look round. By the time I had even considered objecting, he was back in front of me again. 

Stark naked! I whimpered.

“Dean”, he said softly, slowly unbuttoning my shirt, “you have to stop this.”

“Stop what?” I asked, hoping this would be a short conversation. I always had trouble with words after sex with Cas, and after my recent birthday and his 'marking' of it, I had been left hoarse for most of the following day, much to our landlady's amusement.

“Stop thinking so ill of yourself”, he said, slipping my shirt off my back and running his hands over my chest. “I love only you, and I will always love only you, until my dying breath.”

I did not have much breath left as he slowly undid my trousers, pulling them down to the ground and slipping his hands inside my underpants to rub my rapidly-hardening cock.

“Cas!” I whined. 

“Patience is a virtue, Dean”, he smiled. I bit back what would doubtless have been an awesome reply had I been able to put it into words, and just went along for the ride. He slowly slipped my underpants down, and I stepped out of them, now wearing only my socks. He stepped in behind me, and began rubbing his own hard cock up against my backside, holding me to prevent. me from pushing back against him.

“Oh Cas!” I moaned, desperate for more. He kissed along my back, but did not push in, seemingly content to torture me in this way. Then without warning, he reached round and lightly touched my cock.

I exploded like a rocket.

He stepped closer, still not entering me but holding me as I came, then led me gently to the bed and sat me down. My legs felt like jelly, and I could not believe that he had made me come without even being inside of me. Perhaps there was hope for the over-fifties Dean Winchester yet.

“I love you so much”, he whispered. “And when you are ready, I want you to take me standing.”

And there went any chance of my getting some rest. Honestly, as I'd thought before, the man was trying to kill me through sex!

I really hoped he'd keep trying, though!

+~+~+

Postscript: Although Cas decided not to pursue the ladies in question, I know he kept an eye on them in the years that followed. They did not stray again into a life of crime but enjoyed their gains at the expense of the insurance company, who certainly deserved to lose that money. Ten years passed, at the end of which time they decided to leave England for the United States.

Only eight ladies travelling in first-class on the 'RMS Titanic' died. They were two of them.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, all that glisters may not be gold.....


	8. Case 107: Torn And Frayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place'.

I

It was the month of July, and as we once more travelled up the Great Northern Railway from London, it felt as if the country was still drawing breath. Though many people (including myself, if I was honest) had been nervous about the prospect of King Edward the Seventh acceding to the throne, the announcement that his reign might be curtailed by his recently-diagnosed appendicitis had come as a shock. The coronation had been postponed and the king operated on – a novel type of operation for which, the Empire had been warned, success could by no means be guaranteed. Fortunately he was now out of danger, and the coronation had been rescheduled for early August. 

It was ironic - and not a little annoying - that this new case took us back to Hull and the East Riding of Yorkshire, although this time we were headed further on, continuing along the North Eastern Railway's branch-line to the pretty seaside town of Hornsea. Here we met the man whose summons had brought us here, Sergeant Horatio Wilton of the Yorkshire Police, an amiable fair-haired giant of an alpha, who seemed more than a little relieved at our arrival. The wind off the North Sea was blowing the man's wheaten locks into almost as bad a mess as that of the blue-eyed genius next to me.

Almost. Cas was in a class of his own when it came to bad hair. And for once, I was only partly responsible. Well, it had been a long journey and I had seen no reason to waste a perfectly good and very private first-class compartment. With exceptionally comfortable seats, thank God!

“I am sorry to summon you gentlemen up here at such short notice”, the sergeant said apologetically, “but I really hoped you could help me avert a tragedy here.”

“So you said in your telegram”, Cas said, as we left the town behind and bowled along the track (I would have hesitated to award it the title 'road') north towards distant Bridlington. “Pray, who is in danger, and how exactly do you think our presence can prevent disaster?”

“I have something to show you ahead, first”, he said. “About a mile from here. It helps explain what's been going on, and I am sure the doctor in particular would be interested in it.”

+~+~+

A few minutes later, we stopped at a farm gate. The only thing at all unusual was a gravel track which led through it and down to a bay half a mile to the east, and which seemed to have been abandoned some time ago. But there was something familiar about the field either side of it. My mind sprang back to the Priory School, and the deserted medieval village of Martinsthorpe. Coincidentally the first part of that adventure, 'First Born', had appeared in the Strand magazine only last week

“Another abandoned village?” I asked. 

“Not exactly”, he said. “This is Shoscombe-on-Sea, or rather, it was supposed to be. Do you see that big house on the cliff top a mile up ahead?”

We both looked. There was indeed a house there, a ruin by the looks of it, perched perilously close to the cliff edge.

“That is Shoscombe Old Place”, the sergeant said. “Old Mr. Betts lived there. The coast here advances and retreats with some speed, and a large part of the cliff beyond the house only fell into the sea some five years ago.”

“And this place?” Cas asked.

“It was to be a new seaside resort, to rival Bridlington and Scarborough”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Betts hoped the railway you came up would be extended here, but the place never took off. Deserted, before it was even settled. The whole thing nearly ruined the family – which is where I am hoping you gentlemen can ride to the rescue.”

“Like the cavalry”, Cas smiled. “Well, it is an interesting tale. But I still do not see any danger, except structurally to that house.”

“Mr. Abanezer Betts, the father of the current owner Mr. Abel, died some four years back, just when this place failed to make a go of it”, the sergeant said. “It left the family in a mess, and they had already abandoned the Old Place - for obvious reasons - and moved to a large house in Shoscombe village, half a mile inland. The old man was most definitely not on good terms with his son and heir; word was that he thought he didn't really try hard enough with the resort, especially after he missed a meeting with the railway over the possible extension.”

“Anyway, last month Mr. Abel decided to sell off the land to a local farmer. When he did so, he unknowingly triggered a secret clause in his late father's will. The lawyer, a Mr. Poddington – right oily little git, in my humble opinion! - posted a note on the wall of the Royal Oak in the town that there was a great treasure in the abandoned Old Place for anyone who cared to take it. Since then, of course, the place has been crawling with people, and only last week most of what was left of the garden also fell onto the beach. I'm scared someone will get hurt, if only because all that wear and tear is weakening a structure already close to collapse.”

“So you want us to find it and prevent someone going into the sea with the place”, Cas said. “I see. Surely Mr. Abel Betts could merely claim ownership of the item once it is found?”

“Whatever it is, his father revoked all the family's rights to it under the will”, the sergeant said. “It's basically finder's keeper's, though knowing our Mr. Betts, it's probably also finder's right to be sued by Poddington the minute they find it. The family do own the land, but since anyone who bought it would have to first tear down the building, or maybe just let it fall onto the beach, it's not worth much. Particularly with the rate the sea's advancing just now.”

Cas nodded.

“I would value your opinion about this Mr. Abel Betts, sergeant”, he said. “I presume his family have been here for a long time?”

“Legend has it they came over with Edward the Fourth in fourteen hundred and seventy-one, when he reclaimed the throne from Henry the Sixth”, he said. “He landed at Ravenspur near Hull, another place that's been lost to the sea since. They've certainly been here as long as most people can remember, and they're not liked by pretty much everyone. Some of the villagers used the resort beach for their fishing-boats before Old Mr. Betts bought it, and tried to stop them. There's nowhere else for a couple of miles in either direction, so that hit home. Which, of course, means lots of them are in for a chance to snatch the family fortune. If it exists.”

“If it exists”, Cas echoed. “It might be old Mr. Betts' way of pulling a joke on the people who disliked him, as well as his own family.”

The sergeant's face fell.

“I never thought of that”, he said glumly. 

“Cheer up”, Cas said. “We shall work on the assumption that he was not that cruel, if only because otherwise, our presence here is pointless. Let us see what we can do.”

+~+~+

I do not really believe in ghosts or the supernatural, save possibly for the three seers I had come across during our investigations; Miss Pamela Barnes (now Mrs. Cynric Musgrave), Mrs. Missouri Moseley and Mr. Kevin Tran. However, I felt very nervous as Cas, the sergeant and I entered the shell of Shoscombe Old Place. Everything of value had been taken, even the windows, but there were still signs enough that a family had lived here, fighting the daily battle for existence that is humanity. The cold easterly wind blowing through the holes where the windows had been did not help.

Cas, the bastard, obviously knew I was edgy, and chose to put a hand on my shoulder from behind without warning. I jumped and gave a most un-alpha-like squeal, causing the sergeant to smile. I scowled at my mate.

“You have told us, sergeant, that Mr. Abanezer Betts was not overly fond of his son”, Cas said. “Was there anyone, family or otherwise, whom he might have regarded more warmly?”

“Not in his family, sir”, the sergeant said firmly, holding up his lantern. It was not yet dark, but the grey walls reflected little of the sunlight there was on the cloudy day outside. “He was fair with his servants, I'll give him that. All of them got legacies according to their station. He even made a small donation to the county's Police Widows' and Orphans' Fund, which is something I help run. But he wasn't really close to anyone.”

“A pity”, Cas said. “Let us assume that he played fair, and left something here. It would have to be well-hidden, or it would have been found already. Unless there is somewhere that the local people have not been able to look?”

“Only the cellars, sir”, he said. “We checked those thoroughly before sealing them off with cement. The steps down were unsafe.”

Cas nodded, and I went over to look at the bay window, which had a bench cupboard. I opened it, but found nothing except a rather large spider.

“This is unproductive”, Cas said, frowning. “Was there anything that the late Mr. Abanezer had taken out of the house before he died, sergeant?”

“Only his flag, sir.”

“His what?” I asked.

“He claimed it was from an ancestor of his who fought at the siege of Hull, sir”, the sergeant said. “Civil war what-not. Tattered old thing; he had it preserved in a glass case, and his son has it on loan to the local museum.”

“I think I should like to see that”, Cas said. “From what you have said of him, I think that the old man would have left some sort of clue, rather than just have everyone search fruitlessly, and perhaps someone get lucky by sheer chance. Let us go and examine it.”

II

We walked back down to the village, and I for one was glad to leave the old ruin (and that spider!) behind us. The curator of the museum was a grey-haired old alpha called Mr. Burton, and he was talking to a middle-aged and decisively rotund beta in a sharp suit who turned out to be none other than Mr. Abel Betts. He looked at us dubiously when the sergeant introduced us, but agreed that we might look at the flag. As it was on display in a public museum, I hardly saw how he could stop us.

“I thought the old man had done something with it”, he said. “He was mad keen on flags – there used to be a run of them leading up to Old Place – and he wanted me to keep flying the family one, which I do.”

“You have your own flag?” Cas asked.

“Seven horseshoes and a white rose”, the man said proudly. “The old man even got it officially approved by some bod in London.”

“The Garter King of Arms”, I muttered, my opinion of this jackanapes lowering by the minute. 'Bod' indeed!

“This is it”, Mr. Burton said, stopping by a glass case. “As you can see, it is somewhat damaged, but definitely a Royalist flag from that time.”

I nodded. The flag was indeed almost half-gone, but it certainly looked authentic. I do not know what if anything Cas had hoped to find in it, but he looked disappointed.

“Do you still fly your own flag at your new house?” I asked Mr. Betts. He nodded.

“Every day”, he said proudly. “Though in this climate, flags outside barely last half a dozen of years before they wear out. But yes, we make sure everyone knows there is still a Betts in the area.”

Your ego alone should tell them that, I thought silently. Cas looked at me and coughed pointedly. Damn, was he reading my mind again?

He did not need to nod at that point, either!

+~+~+

The sergeant had booked the two of us into rooms at Shoscombe's solitary inn, the oddly-named Robin Hood, and I endured a rough night's sleep. Bizarrely, not sleeping with a human octopus was strangely unsettling. Judging from his pallor, my friend too had had little sleep, and we went out for a short walk before breakfast. 

“The opinion amongst the people in the bar last night was that Mr. Abanezer Betts was indeed something of a joker”, I said as we were headed back down the village's single road to the inn. “The blacksmith said that he always drove a hard bargain for anything he wanted, but that he was a man of his word, and stuck to deals once they were made. I do not think that he would have left nothing for people to find, so there has to be a clue somewhere.”

“Unless he disliked his son enough”, Cas said. “There seems to have been little familial affection between the two of them.”

We arrived back at the inn to find the sergeant waiting for us.

“I remembered something last night”, he said as we ate a indifferent breakfast of bacon and eggs. Cas had insisted on ordering a breakfast for the sergeant, who unsurprisingly did not object. “You remember that plinth in the gallery?”

I did, a huge thing in the centre of the room.

“Well”, he said, “on it there was a replica of a ship one of his ancestors claimed to have served on. A warship called the Guinnegatte. Old Mr. Betts donated it to the museum.”

“Surely that's cheating”, I objected. “He told everyone that the treasure was in the house.”

“Perhaps that is it”, Cas said.

I looked at him.

“What is?”

“He said the treasure 'was' in the house", Cas said. "Not that it still is. Well done, sergeant. We need to return to the museum and check out that model immediately.”

The policeman's face fell.

“Immediately after breakfast”, Cas clarified.

Sergeant Wilton beamed.

+~+~+

Mr. Burton was not unnaturally a little nervous about our examining if not dismantling what he viewed as his model (even though it was technically the property of Mr. Betts), so Cas said he would telegram London for an expert to come up on Monday and do a professional analysis without damaging it. We did make a cursory examination, but it seemed like it was just what it appeared to be, an intricate model of an old-time ship. The day passed otherwise uneventfully, except I noticed that the church had replaced the Union Jack of the day before with the Royal Standard. I asked the vicar, a beta called Reverend Timmins, why this was.

“Every year, we mark the siege of Hull”, he said. “It was one of the turning points of the Civil War. The anniversary was actually on Thursday, but we hold a special service the Sunday after.”

“This was a Royalist area?” Cas asked. The priest nodded. 

“Hull was Parliamentarian, whilst Bridlington was Royalist”, he explained, “so we were in the middle. Luckily this is pretty much out of the road to anywhere, so we avoided the fates of some other areas.”

I thought back to our recent case at Redford, and shuddered. Those had been dangerous times. Thank Heaven we lived in a more understanding age, in a country where we were less prone to fight each other over religion. Such attitudes belonged firmly in the past.

+~+~+

The service on Sunday was a little long, I thought, and we got to see Mr. Betts and his family sitting in the family pew. Mrs. Betts looked formidable, about twice the size of her husband, and their three children (two sons and a daughter) looked mirror images of their parents, poor things. I was aware that Cas seemed distracted over something or other, but I did not push. He would tell me in his own good time. 

When the service was over, we all trooped out, and somehow I managed to lose him. I swear I only took my eyes off his for a moment to talk to the vicar, but he was gone. I could not find him anywhere until he came out of the door some little time later, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I think I am getting to rather like the late Mr. Abanezer Betts”, he said enigmatically. “Tell me, reverend, is the family flag only hung out for special occasions like today?”

The vicar looked confused.

“Not exactly, sir” he said. “Normally it hangs from the high rail above the family pew, but for today only it is moved to directly opposite the door.”

Cas thanked him, and we left. I waited until we were alone before turning on him.

“What did you find?” I demanded.

“I think I may have found where the treasure is”, he said. “We need to go back to the Old Place to see if it is there.”

“How do you know?” I demanded.

He walked a little away from me, grinning.

“Tell you later!” he called over his shoulder.

Sometimes I hated him!

III

Cas called in at the lawyer's house next, and came out smiling even more. He would say nothing of what he had found out, however, and instead hired a cart to take us both to the beach at Shoscombe-on-Sea. It still felt a little eerie, riding down a High Street that would now never have any houses, and I was glad when we reached the end and Cas tied the horse to the gate-post at the beach entrance. He led me down onto the stony shore and turned to me.

“This had been an interesting case”, he smiled, “and I think I know where to look for the treasure that the late Mr. Betts so cleverly hid.”

“Where?” I demanded at once. He smiled at my impatience.

“When I was in the church, I looked up at the family flag hanging directly over the heads of his son and his family”, Cas said, walking towards Shoscombe Old Place as he spoke “It struck me that, from what I knew of his character, the late Mr. Abanezer Betts would have taken particular pleasure in placing the solution to the problems so close to his son that he would never think to look for it there. So once they had left the church, I examined the flag more closely. There were messages sewn into both the white rose and the horseshoe pins. The rose first; the message there was 'vita sicut acta', which translates roughly as 'life is a beach'.”

“The treasure is on the beach?” I said, wonderingly. It was, after all, a large beach, almost a mile from end to end. He shook his head.

“Then there was what the sergeant told us, which was only half-true”, he said.

“So he lied”, I said, annoyed. I had thought the man a decent human being.

“I did not say that”, Cas said. “He told us that the late Mr. Abanezer Betts had said that the treasure was in the building. That, however, was not what the will actually said. The wording was that the treasure was at Shoscombe Old Place, but not in the grounds around the house.”

“I do not see the difference”, I said, pouting. We were almost up to the cliff beneath the building by now, though because of the angle we could no longer see it. Unless it decided to fall on us!

Cas turned and stared back southwards, seemingly looking for something out at sea. I followed his vision, but could see nothing except a distant boat or ship, too far to make out any detail. “Do you think.....?”

Cas had vanished.

I stared around in shock. We had been at the far end of the bay, and the sheer rock face ran out into the sea. Unless he had grown wings like his angel namesake and flew, I could not see where he had gone. Stupidly, I at once began to feel anxious.

“Cas!” I yelled.

Incredibly, he materialized at once from behind the sheer rock face. I stared in shock.

“A clever illusion”, he explained. “There is an entrance just behind..... Dean?”

It was ridiculous. He had been gone for barely ten seconds, and I was already having a panic attack. I tried to pull myself together, but the contrite look on his face was too much for me, and I broke down in tears. He rushed forwards and sat me down on the pebbles, scenting me to try to clam my breathing. Hell, I was such an omega at times!

“I am sorry”, he said gently. “I should have thought....”

I spun round and pinned him to the ground, towering over him. Physically he was stronger than me, I knew, but I was high on a mixture of fear and anger. He looked up at me, and nodded.

“Take me, Dean”, he ordered.

We were on a public beach, even though at the far end and it being a little-used one, but I could not have stopped for all the tea in China. I almost tore his trousers trying to get them off, and did actually rip his underpants when in my frustration I was unable to remove them quickly enough. Whipping out my own cock took far too long, but he used the time to quickly prepare himself, and I was able to thrust right in, letting out a blissful sigh as I did so.

“Harder!” he commanded. “Dean, push!”

I attacked his hole like I was trying to forge my own journey to the centre of the Earth, charging away like an alpha on his first rut. My own eyes were watering with the effort, but I had just enough sense left to wrap one hand around his cock and jerk him off. Normally he was able to resist me until after I myself had come, but this time he came almost at once, his clenching of his walls dragging me over the edge after him. I almost collapsed on top of him, using my hands to support myself.

Ye Gods, what had I done?

He ran a gentle hand around my stubbled chin, and smiled up at me. 

“We are most definitely doing that again”, he said firmly. “Indeed, I think it is time I treated myself, and hired a special so we can be uninterrupted all the way back to London!”

I fell onto him, kissing him for all I was worth. I must have been a saint in a previous life, to have deserved this man!

+~+~+

The passage behind the cleverly-designed rock-face was wide, and led towards the Old Place.

“Not only the dangers of the Civil War, but religious differences from the century before”, Cas said, as we made our way along a surprisingly well-maintained passageway. “The owners at the time needed a rapid escape if their enemies [aid an unexpected visit. I would wager that they kept a boat down here.”

“I am surprised that Mr. Abel Betts did not know about it”, I observed. I was still feeling more than a little ashamed of my actions outside, and Cas ran a hand gently over my trousers. I shuddered, not just at that but at the fact I knew he now had no underwear on, my having destroyed it. 

“Before he died, Mr. Abanezer Betts had the builders in to seal off the entrance at the house end”, he explained. “However, that still left the sea-entrance. If I have this right, then the treasure should be in the sealed room behind the old entrance, hence technically in the Old Place but not in the grounds.”

“Sneaky”, I said.

The passageway ended at some steps, which ascended to a door. Cas easily picked the lock, and we entered to find an almost totally empty room, apart from one old table on which stood a small gold treasure-chest. Cas opened it, looked inside and smiled.

“We have succeeded”, he said. “Come, let us go and make sure that this goes to the people that the late Mr. Betts would have wished it to.”

I nodded, and followed him from the room. We were almost back on the beach when he suddenly stopped, and I almost ran into him.

“Definitely ordering that special!” he muttered.

Bastard! It was damnably hard to walk all the way back to the cart with a full erection!

IV

The next day, Cas took me to the Old Place. It was cold for the middle if summer, and I shivered, thinking longingly of Baker Street and a roaring fire. Then I thought of the journey back, and I shivered for quite a different reason.

“I asked Sergeant Wilton to bring Mr. Abel Betts here”, Cas said, looking at me knowingly. “We should not have to wait too long for them.”

I nodded, willing the men to arrive quickly. It seemed like an eternity before they did, but finally there came through the open doorway, and Cas led us all into the gallery. He turned to Mr. Betts.

“I wish to be quite clear about the terms of this 'treasure hunt'”, he said. “Your father revoked all rights to the items he hid in this house, did he not?”

“He did, the old fool!” Mr. Betts said angrily. “And the family lawyer's just waiting to be set on anyone who tries to walk off with it!”

Cas nodded.

“And one of the terms is that each seeker can take only one item from the house, is that not the case?”

The landowner looked at him uncertainly.

“Yes”, he said. “What? You think you have found it?”

He sounded incredulous. Cas smiled knowingly, then reached down behind the plinth and produced the treasure-chest he had found the day before. Opening it, he withdrew two leather pouches. He carefully opened the first, and poured the contents out onto the wide flat surface. It contained nothing but a lot of tarnished old coins.

“Is that it?” Mr Betts said scornfully. “A few old pennies?”

Cas smiled, and emptied out the second bag just as carefully. The contents of this were rather more impressive – a number of small pieces of gold jewellery, and several loose and large gemstones. Mr. Betts stepped firmly forward. 

“Mine, I think”, he said, quickly pushing the treasure back into the pouch. He made to leave, but Cas grabbed him by the hand.

“One moment”, he said. “I believe that I was the person who found these items. And as a consulting detective, I have such things as fees, Mr. Betts.”

The look on the man's face was almost comical, as he clutched his treasure to his chest. He looked around desperately, and his eyes fell on the pile of old coins.

“Do you accept payment in coin, Mr. Novak?” he asked hopefully.

Cas sighed in a put-upon manner.

“I suppose I could sell some, and keep the rest as a memento”, he said resignedly. “Very well.”

The landowner could hardly suppress his glee, and actually collided with the door-frame in his haste to leave. Cas replaced the coins in the remaining pouch and smiled.

“You let him take the treasure”, the sergeant said accusingly.

“I suggest we adjourn to the inn”, Cas said dryly, “before nature takes its course and we end up on the beach along with this old ruin. Come, gentlemen.”

He led the way out, and we both followed.

+~+~+

Over three pints of a surprisingly pleasant local beer, Cas sat back and placed the pouch on the table in front of us.

“How did you know where to look?” I asked.

“Mr. Abanezer Betts told me”, he said with a smile. “In fact, he told anyone who had their eyes open. I was just the first to spot it.”

“Spot what?” the sergeant asked. 

“Mr. Betts did not like his son, so he planned a little revenge”, Cas said. “In fact, it was quite an impressively large revenge, and I have to doff my hat the man. He first converted as much of the estate as he could into something small that could easily be hidden away somewhere.”

“The jewels”, the sergeant said, nodding.

“However, Mr. Betts was above all a fair man”, Cas said. “ And he made sure that the answer to where the treasure was hidden lay in plain sight all along.”

“The family flag in the church”, I said.

“That flag, sergeant, had two clues on it, both in Latin”, Cas said. “The first led us to the beach and the discovering of the old secret passage which Mr. Abanezer Betts had sealed off only at the house end. Hence he then was able to go down to the beach and up inside his house, placing the treasure where only someone doing the same could hope to find it. There was probably a secret access through the cellars which he, I am sure, had bricked up before he died. I would wager that the old man chuckled every time he thought of his son in the family pew, and the answer as to where the treasure was hanging a yard or so above his head. If he had ever looked up and looked closely, he would have seen it.”

I nodded.

“I still don't see why you let him have the treasure, though”, the sergeant said, looking annoyed. “I mean, it's not as if he needs the money.”

“You, presumably, would have donated it all to the Widows' and Orphans' Fund, and not kept a..... penny of it”, Cas grinned.

“Of course”, he said. “Money doesn't buy happiness.”

I stared at Cas. I knew him well enough by now to know when there was something behind those words.

“Oh my God!” I blurted out.

V

The sergeant looked at me as if I had gone mad.

“Not a penny!” I said. “Those diamonds and all that gold – they were fake!”

“Indeed”, Cas grinned. “Fool's gold, appropriately enough. I only wish I were there when Mr. Betts finds out.”

“So there was no treasure?” the sergeant asked.

“The second clue on the flag was another phrase in what I believe is called 'dog Latin'”, Cas said. Seeing the sergeant's nonplussed face, he continued, “it is where one takes a modern phrase and translates it into that language, even though the Romans themselves would never have said it. The second message, hidden in the pins of the horseshoes, was 'omnis quis coruscat non est or'.”

“Shakespeare”, I explained. “'All that glisters is not gold'. From 'The Merchant of Venice'.”

Cas pushed the pouch of coins across the table to him.

“I am no numismatist”, he said quietly, “but even I, in the brief time I have had to examine them, have recognized two Roman coins amongst that little hoard. And let us raise our glasses to Mr. Abanezer Betts, who as with everything else foresaw this, and gave his son exactly what he wanted. And persuaded him, in the presence of a doctor and an officer of the law, to revoke all rights to the real treasure he so briefly had in his possession. Instead, Mr. Betts chose all that glistered. I do hope the widows and orphans of the East Riding appreciate his monumental generosity!”

+~+~+

We stayed an extra day in Yorkshire, during which Cas did an interview with a Hull paper. In it, he thanked Mr. Abel Betts for so kindly donating the treasure to the Police Widows' and Orphans' Fund, a move which left the presumably irate landowner even more powerless to react as he had indeed waived his rights to the coins in front of two witnesses. The coins were soon valued, and turned out to have a total worth in excess of two thousand pounds. The local constabulary presented Cas with a framed copy of the most expensive one, a denarius, and my friend kept in proudly on display on his bookcase in Baker Street.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, I lose count of my Garridebs, and totally underestimate my friend when I (re)discover Heaven on earth.


	9. Case 108: Simon Said (1902)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of The Three Garridebs'.

I

Apart from allowing me to go to town on his body to mark my fiftieth birthday on January the twenty-fourth of that year (which I spent most of the rest of January alternatively ruing and having happy memories over), Cas allowed that unfortunate milestone in my life to pass quietly (I silently resolved to return the favour in two and a half years' time). I did not want him to buy anything for me that, when I looked at in future years, would keep reminding me just how old I was when I got it, though I was somewhat surprised (and, perversely, a little disappointed) that he agreed to my request so readily.

God, I was so dumb at times! Though in retrospect, I was never so happy to be proven wrong......

+~+~+

The omega sat in the famous fireside chair in Baker Street that mid-September morn was fairly nondescript. Early middle-age, dark hair already showing signs of balding, still drying out from the sharp shower which had evidently caught him out, Mr. Alston Bushell was every inch the dutiful clerk clerk working for a notable firm of lawyers in Mile End, east London. The only thing slightly unusual had been his opening statement of the reasons for his presence.

“I think my fellow clerk is about to to kill my employer!”

That had earnt him a quizzical raise of the eyebrows from Cas, and I had stopped taking notes to make sure I had heard him correctly. However, he repeated the statement, and his earnest expression seemed only to back up his unusual statement.

“”Why?” Cas asked, sitting back. Our guest took a deep breath.

“It's a long story”, he said. “About thirty years ago, two brothers, Simon and Pieter Garrideb, arrived from the Netherlands and set up business in London. Three of their uncles had come over here some years prior, which is also important to the story. These two did very well for themselves, and by the time Mr. Pieter died ten years ago, they had built up a considerable fortune. Mr. Simon died two years ago, and my employer Mr. Jefferson Garrideb – only a distant cousin, I might add, had the honour of executing his last will and testament.”

“That must have been a boon”, Cas smiled. He nodded.

“We were fortunate”, he said. “Apparently the late Mr. Simon Garrideb had developed a fixation with his unusual surname, and my employer Mr. Jefferson was his first cousin once removed. The will left a huge fortune, valued some way into five figures, to be divided amongst his relatives, but under very strict conditions. Firstly they had to be a direct descendant of Simon 's grandfather, Willem, who was the first member of the family to spell his name that way. Next, they had to have the correct spelling. Many others in the family had Anglicized to Garrovick, which he disliked intensely. Another rule was that the beneficiaries had to be male and of age, and descended solely through the male line. My employer therefore qualified, and he was set out to hunt down any other Garridebs in England. That was another rule; the heir had to be living in the United Kingdom when they were found, and to stay there to remain a beneficiary.”

“It all sounds very complicated”, I said. “Was there not a conflict of interest for your employer? The more Garridebs he found, the less his share would be.”

“The late Mr. Simon had thought of that”, our visitor explained. “A large sum was set aside for my employer's efforts, and he had not only to spend it all but to render full accounts of his expenditure to two independent trustees. But Mr. Jefferson is too honest to have done anything less than his best, even considering the prize on offer.”

“Do you know the value of the estate?” Cas asked.

“I think overall it was in excess of twenty thousand pounds, after various minor gifts to servants”, Mr. Bushell said. “My employer travelled extensively, and found nine more Garridebs, but only two of those fitted the bill, each man getting just under seven thousand pounds gross. They were Andrew Garrideb, an alpha and a banker in Norwich, and John Garrideb, a beta who worked at a hospital in Barnstable, in Devonshire.”

“Worked?” I asked, picking up on the past tense. He looked at me gravely.

“Yes”, he said. “The terms of the will were unusual, which was why I used the word gross. The beneficiaries received ten per cent of the original sum allocated to them each year for ten years, plus the interest accrued at the end. So it worked out at slightly under six hundred pounds per year, per person. A very nice amount just for having the right name.”

“I suppose the people who had the name but failed the criteria were not pleased?” Cas asked. Our visitor nodded.

“John Garrideb had an unmarried sister Julia, who said she would take legal advice on challenging the will. But I presume it must have told her that she would lose, for we heard nothing from her.”

“What happened to John Garrideb?” Cas asked.

“Three months ago, he was murdered on his way home from work one day”, our guest said. “He had been on a double shift, so it was about midday when the attack took place. The hospital said he was very tired after a long shift, so he would probably not have been able to defend himself.”

He looked at us awkwardly, before continuing. 

“One of the terms of the inheritance was that the firm managing the estate had to make periodic visits to the beneficiaries, to make sure they were all right”, he said. “Mr Simon Garrideb had a pathological fear of someone killing his heirs and taking their place – I believe a psychic had warned him of such a thing, or some such nonsense - so he insisted on regular meetings between Mr. Jefferson or his representatives and each person, unannounced and at slightly different times each quarter. The clerk I was telling you about, Mr. Hemsworth Newton, was delegated to go and see the two rural Garridebs. He was visiting Mr. John Garrideb on the day he was killed.”

I whistled through my teeth.

“Let me hazard a guess”, Cas said. “Mr. Newton was also visiting Mr. Andrew Garrideb when something befell him?”

Our visitor nodded.

“Someone switched his tablets, and he was poisoned with the replacements”, he said. He hesitated before adding, “I know that Mr. Newton has a book about poisons on his bookshelf which I saw one time I was there, but when I looked recently, it had gone.”

“But wait a minute”, I said. “Motive? Mr. Newton cannot stand to gain by this, surely?”

“That is what I don't understand”, Mr Bushell said, wringing his hands. “I like Hemmy; he's quiet but a good sort underneath the bad sweaters. But the facts..... well, I am nervous, gentlemen.”

I thought of Cas' own fascination with ugly sweaters, each of which strove to be more horrendous that the next, and smiled.

“Does Mr. Jefferson Garrideb have any sons of his own to inherit?” I asked. To my surprise our visitor sighed heavily.

“That is what was so unfortunate”, he moaned. “Some time back, there was an estrangement between Mr. Jefferson and his wife, and their two sons not only stayed with her but on her advice changed their names to her own, Gardener, just to spite their father. I recall that that event took place only days before we discovered the terms of the will; rarely has such an act of spite proved so costly. Neither of them can now inherit, even if they change their names back.”

“Do you think that this Mr. Newton may be of the impression that your employer might leave his business, or at least a share of it, to him?” Cas asked.

Our visitor nodded.

“I wondered if that might be motive”, he admitted. “But Hemmy does not seem the sort to go round murdering people!”

“Few murderers do”, Cas said sagely. "I have another question. Now that Mr. Jefferson Garrideb is the sole beneficiary of a huge estate, who inherits that estate if he passes on?”

“In that event, the trustees are empowered to spend up to one-tenth of the value of the estate searching for more Garridebs”, Mr. Bushell explained. “Should they fail to find any in a two-year period, the money goes to three charities in equal proportions.” 

And Mr. Hemsworth Newton would have many years to enrich himself in the meantime, I thought acidly.

“Your employer sent Mr. Newton to these towns.” Cas said. “Is he the senior clerk or you?”

“I am”, he said, “Do you think that you may be in a position to help us?”

Cas hesitated.

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Bushell”, he said hesitantly, “client confidentiality is as important in my line of work as it is in yours, if not more so. I am currently engaged in a most delicate matter involving a certain member of Continental royalty, and I am expecting certain news I requested to come in at any moment in the next two days, whereon most likely I shall have to act immediately. I wish I were free, but I cannot attend to your case before Friday at the earliest. I only hope that is acceptable.”

“I have to travel to Dover on business this Thursday, and will be meeting my employer, who is returning from France”, he said with a sigh. “I do not suppose anything will happen whilst he is out of the country. Friday afternoon at my offices would be fine.”

He placed a card on the table, and I noted the address, a quality one near the Tower. He then bowed, and left.

II

Cas waited until some few moments after he had gone before leaping to his feet. I would have asked why he had lied about our having an important case just then, but he looked in a hurry.

“I must go”, he said. “It may be too late, but I need to move now.”

“Why?” I asked, confused. 

“To save a man's life”, he said. 

“But Mr. Jefferson Garrideb is in France”, I reminded him. “Unless you think he may be attacked on the train?”

“It is not he whose life is in danger”, Cas said, taking up the card that our visitor had just left. “Go to the window and tell me if he has left yet.”

I did so.

“He is just getting into a cab”, I said, feeling increasingly bewildered.

“It is fortunate that I have a contact close to there who is suitable”, he said, hurrying over to the door. “I shall not be long.”

He was gone before I could ask for any further explanation. I stared after him in confusion.

+~+~+

The following morning, Mr. Alston Bushell burst into our rooms looking decidedly dishevelled. It was not as bad as Cas first thing in the morning – in thirty years I had yet to find anything in life that was – but it was not far short.

“Mr. Newton refuses to come to work!” he snapped, as if this development were somehow our fault. “Apparently someone went to the business yesterday and threatened him, and now he says he is terrified. I went to his house, but his landlady says that he refuses to see anyone!”

Cas tutted as if this was some minor inconvenience. 

“I found time yesterday to make some inquiries into this case”, he said casually, pouting himself his fourth coffee of the morning (the man had an iron bladder, I swear!). “I forgot to ask you yesterday as to the circumstances in which your Mr. Newton came to work for your employer. It seems that in the event of your employer's demise, the trustees may not have to look very far for another Garrideb.”

Our visitor's face went white.

“Mr. Newton?” he gasped.

“The exact terms of the bequest - I sent for the will yesterday - do not prohibit someone from using another name, only from officially changing their name”, Cas said calmly. “A new Mr. Garrideb could call himself Achilles Zephaniah Corkscrew-Codswallop at work, but provided he remained a Garrideb on the official records, he would still inherit.”

Mr. Bushell gladly accepted the whisky I poured for him, and he looked more than capable of taking another.

“But if he did make a claim, everyone would know he killed them”, he said, clearly trying to re-balance his suddenly topsy-turvy world.

“English juries need rather more than the fact that someone happened to be in the area when a murder occurred”, Cas said grimly. “No, if we are to flush the killer out, I am very much afraid that we will need...... bait.”

Our visitor looked at us in confusion, before the words registered.

“Mr. Jefferson?” he snorted. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Mr Bushell, until this killer is behind bars, your employer is in mortal danger”, Cas said firmly. “Now, you said that he is returning to Dover on Friday. From Calais?”

Mr. Bushell nodded. “The morning ferry”, he said. “Due in at ten. I am meeting him at the station, and we will travel to London together.”

“Will he reach the station first, or you?” Cas asked. 

Mr. Bushell thought, and went even paler.

“He said he would be there by eleven at the latest”, he said, ashen-faced, “and my train does not get in until a quarter past.”

“Consider it from a killer's viewpoint, if you can”, Cas said quietly. “All that stands between you and all that money, in a small railway carriage, standing at a country station......”

Our visitor shuddered.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I suggest you send a message to Mr. Newton and ask him if he can man the office whilst you are in Kent”, Cas said. “You could tell him that you are taking a morning train down and will not be back until Friday evening. All he has to do is to man the office for those two days, and you could even promise him a good reference if he persists in leaving. One word of advice, though.....”

“What?”

“You may be followed on Thursday, just to make sure that you are on the train”, Cas said. “After all, the stakes are very high here. If you do see someone, for God's sake ignore them. We want Mr. Newton to feel sure that you are in Kent, otherwise he will not do what I expect him to do.”

“Which is?” Mr. Bushell asked.

Cas looked at him as if to say 'really?' The man swallowed hard.

“Do not worry”, Cas said. “I will have a network of people in place on the day, all highly-paid professionals. I can personally guarantee Mr. Jefferson Garrideb's personal safety.”

Mr, Bushell did not look convinced.

+~+~+

On Thursday afternoon, Cas and I adjourned to Victoria for a South Eastern and Chatham Railway train to Dover. I noted with pleasure and relief that we did not go instead from Charing Cross, which would have entailed our journeying through Tonbridge. That town would forever raise bad memories, but I still had him.

We reached Dover and settled into a hotel for the night. The following morning we headed to the station, where we were to meet Mr. Bushell. From the look of him, he had not slept much.

“You were right”, he said. “There was someone waiting outside my house this morning, and he followed me in a cab all the way to Charing Cross! Fortunately I found Mr. Jefferson, and have made sure he is safe and secure in his own compartment. Is all well with you, gentlemen?”

“I think so”, Cas smiled. “I am sorry we are a little late, but I think we still have ten minutes before departure.

Mr. Bushell seemed about to say something when he glanced over Cas' shoulder, and his face froze.

“I don't believe it!” he hissed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You said you were watching him!” he hissed at Cas. “That's him?”

“Who?” I asked,

He gestured along the platform to where a short man in dark glasses reading a newspaper was glancing over it at us.

“Mr. Newton!”, Mr. Bushell hissed. “I'd know that coat of his anywhere. It's even got the tear up the back!”

“Mr. Bushell....” Cas began.

“I've got to get to Mr. Jefferson!” he said frantically, hurrying towards the carriage. 

Cas looked pointedly at me and I nodded, racing after the man. We both barrelled into a compartment, where an elderly gentleman lay apparently asleep. Mr. Bushell moved to wake him, but I restrained him.

“Something is wrong”, I said urgently. “Wait outside. And do not let anyone in!”

He nodded frantically, and nearly broke the glass in the door with the fervour with which he forced it shut. I quickly pull down the blinds and began my examination.

III

Five minutes later, I emerged to find Cas and an ashen-faced Mr. Bushell in the corridor. I slowly shook my head.

“Poison”, I said. “He may have been suffocated before, but I cannot be sure of that. A post mortem would confirm it.”

“I knew it!” Mr. Bushell growled. “So much for your guarantees, Mr. Novak! He killed him!”

“At least I shall have the satisfaction of taking in a murderer today”, Cas said calmly. “The police are waiting for us in the waiting-room. Shall we go?”

“What about Mr. Jefferson?” Mr, Bushell demanded. “And Mr. Newton.”

“All taken care of”, Cas said. “I am having the body removed before the train leaves. A killer awaits justice. Let us go.”

+~+~+

When we reached the waiting-room, Mr. Bushell was clearly surprised and displeased not to find his fellow clerk there. A lone constable nodded to us, and remained standing.

“Where's Newton?” our client demanded. “I thought you said they'd arrested him?”

“That would be difficult”, Cas said. “After all, it is not as if he has murdered anybody.”

Mr, Bushell looked at him as if he were mad. I hid a smile.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“I said that I would arrest a killer”, Cas said. “I was referring to you, Mr. Bushell. And before you do anything even more stupid than you have already done, kindly be aware that the hand in the doctor's pocket is currently holding a revolver, and if you force him to fire through his jacket, he will not be best pleased. He may aim his first shot low.”

“You are mad!”

“I do not think so”, Cas said. “No, Mr, Bushell – or perhaps I should call you by your real name, the one you hid from your employer. Mr. Alston Garrideb.”

“Lies! All lies!” the man all but screamed.

“You found out about your distant cousin's strange will a long time ago, and got yourself employed by the lawyer administering it, naturally concealing your name”, Cas said. “Your plan was simple – remove any Garridebs between you and the money, and claim all. However, you realized that you would need someone to blame for the killings – which was where poor Mr. Newton came in. By the way, he is safely back in London, having spent the day reorganizing the filing cabinets under your secretary's supervision. He sends his regards.”

Mr. Bushell scowled.

“I made inquiries, and although you did visit your new client on the days of the first two murders, you neglected to mention that both meetings were very short, allowing you plenty of time to catch a train, follow your scapegoat and kill your cousins, then return to London. I dare say that, once we had seen you off from this station, 'Mr. Alston Bushell' would have mysteriously vanished, no doubt done to death by the same person who killed your employer. Which reminds me.....”

Cas stood up and went over to the door. He opened it, and three people came in. Two were policemen, and Mr. Bushell's jaw dropped when he saw the third. Mr. Jefferson Garrideb.

“I warned Mr. Garrideb by telegram of your murderous intentions”, Cas said, “and persuaded the customs officials to draw him aside so I could have further words with him this morning. He knew full well not to eat or drink anything you gave him, and I gave him a medication chosen by the doctor here which rendered him unconscious for five minutes. That is also one of the rare occasions that I have ever heard the good doctor openly lie about a diagnosis, so you did achieve something. You will also be interested to know that the police have secured the coffee you brought your employer this morning, and are having it tested for poison. I have a strange feeling that that particular test will be positive.”

“But I saw Newton!” the man whined. “With my own eyes. He was right here!”

The door opened again, and a man came in with a coat over his arm. Cas smiled.

“Meet Mr. Jeremy Osborne, a talented actor friend of mine”, he said. “Mr. Newton was kind enough to loan us his coat for the day – thank you, Mr. Osborne, your own coat is on the rack over there – to complete the illusion. Now, I think we have detained the police for long enough, and that they have a cell with your name on it. Gentlemen, please?”

Mr. Bushell lunged at Cas, whose fist connected sharply with his advancing jaw. The man spun round and fell to the ground, and the police dragged him away.

+~+~+

I was not overly pleased when, on our way back to London, Cas insisted on taking the line through Tonbridge. And when he chose to alight there for some reason, I was even less pleased. At least I still had my gun!

“No would-be detective-killers around this time!” he chuckled. “But we need to change here.”

“Why?” I asked. True, it was still early afternoon, but I had only had a quick lunch on the train and I wanted to be back in Baker Street.

“I have something to show you”, he said.

All right, now that made me worried.

IV

Two train rides and a cart ride later, and we were somewhere on the Sussex Downs east of Brighton. I forgot my hunger for a moment as the little cart Cas had hired breasted a small hill and I found myself looking down into a familiar little dean. I stared in shock. It was the self-same place I had found during the case of the Sussex Vampire, just over a year back. Cas did not drive us down into the village, but instead turned left and drove along a track that ran breasted the northern side of the dean, ending in a small honeysuckle-covered cottage. I recognized it as the one that I had seen from the church.

“It's lovely”, I said. “Are we here on another case already?”

“Not exactly”, he said. “Let us go in and look. No-one's home just now.”

Odd, I thought, but followed him inside. The interior of the college was if anything even more beautiful than the outside, as if someone had miniaturized a perfect English manor and placed it in this lovely spot.

“Who owns this?” I asked.

He hesitated.

“At the moment, a young man called Mr. Jack Smith”, he said. “He inherited it from his father some time back, but he has a house elsewhere, and he cannot do anything with this until his twenty-first birthday, a little under two years from now, when he assumes full control of his estates.”

“He does not want to live here?” I asked in wonder. “Why ever not?”

“He is happy in his old family house in Cheshire”, Cas said. “He is selling this place, and the new buyers will be able to move in in two year's time.”

“Lucky sods!” I said enviously.

He turned and took my hands, his blue eyes boring into my green ones.

“Yes”, he said. “We are.”

I blinked in astonishment.

“You said not to buy you a present on your birthday this year”, he said with a shy smile. “So I brought us a present on my birthday instead. I thought two more years in Baker Street, and then..... retirement. Balthazar can make amends for his shoddy treatment of us both by using the time to cover our tracks, and making sure we can live here in peace.”

Live here? In this heavenly place, cut off from the world outside, just me and Cas?

Hell, yes!

I all but leaped on him, pressing him back into the wall as I kissed him long and hard, our tongues vying for dominance. I was disappointed when he pulled back, but his next words made it worth it.

“This place has only one main bedroom”, he panted, “and a very small guest-room. I suggest we go to the former and..... christen it.”

Hell, yes!

Cas, typically, sprinted ahead of me – how he could run with an erection when I could not was blatantly unfair! - and by the time I got to the bedroom, he was already lying back on the bed, stark naked with his legs raised in anticipation. I whined at my own slowness in getting out of my clothes, and nearly tore my shirt trying to get it off before I stumbled over to the bed. He had, of course, used my slowness to prepare himself, and I was able to thrust straight in. He wrapped his legs around my back and, using that inhuman strength of his, hoisted himself up to wrap himself around my chest whilst he was still impaled on my cock.

“Come on, Dean!” he whispered. “This is the first time in what will soon be our new home. Is that really the best you can do?”

I scowled and thrust upwards, and he growled and countered with his own thrust against me, seeming intent on swallowing me whole. I had to stagger back against the wall for support – hey, I was over fifty! - but he was able to somehow support some of his weight whilst continuing to impale himself on me, literally drawing the orgasm out of me. I came violently, and was almost disappointed that he did not immediately follow suit.

Then I felt it, what I had ignored in my sex-obsessed haze. He had a cock-ring on again!

“You planned this!” I accused.

He looked at me coyly, which considering I was still buried deep inside of him was quite an achievement.

“So what are you going to do about it?” he quipped. 

I managed to carry him back to the bed and sat on it, with him still wrapped around me. We exchanged a long kiss before I spoke again.

“Make you pay, once I've got my breath back!” I panted. “Typical sex-obsessed alpha!”

“Pot, kettle, black”, he muttered.

I thrust up into him again, and he growled appreciatively.

+~+~+

We barely made that last train to London. But it was worth it.

+~+~+

It subsequently emerged that Mr. Alston Garrideb had been behind the break-up of his employer's marriage, and had persuaded Mrs. Jefferson Garrideb to change her and her son's names so the latter could not inherit. The two reconciled soon after, and went on to have two more children, an alpha and a girl. And I would spend the next two years knowing that there was now a set date beyond which everything would be sunshine and roses in our own little cottage in the country. All I had to do was get us both there safely....

Our final set of adventures from Baker Street, and with retirement beckoning, I manage to get kissed by the wrong girl!


End file.
